


Forget Me Not

by BadOctopus



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Aliens, Bolians, Cryogenics, Drama, F/M, Gen, Human Popsicle, Romance, Science Fiction, holograms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6608503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOctopus/pseuds/BadOctopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Endgame. Against his better judgment, the Doctor agrees to revive a woman frozen in cryostasis for four hundred years — a woman who was closely associated with one of his most hated enemies. Now he must set aside his misgivings to help her make a new life for herself. But all she wants is to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the idea for this story in my head for... oh, ten years at least. For once, the time seems right. The Doc is awesome, and the world needs more stories about him. So here we go. Hope you like it.
> 
> Also, I know there's C/7 in it. I'm not crazy about it, either, but it is canon. And I try to stick as close to canon as possible. Besides, it's not the focus of my story, so please try to keep an open mind. Thanks!

The room was different than Jordan had imagined it. In her mind, she had conjured images of white walls, gleaming metal surfaces, and a strong smell of disinfectant. Maybe a bland, mass-produced art print hanging on one of the walls, as a half-hearted attempt at a personal touch. In short, typical hospital surroundings — cold, sterile, and depressing. After all, she had been in enough hospitals to know what to expect. This wasn't her first rodeo.

Instead, she found herself in a warm, welcoming space, painted in a soft beige. As she stepped forward, her slippered feet sank into dense, lush, high-pile carpet. Recessed lighting from the ceiling cast the room in a muted light, and classical music issued forth somewhere from hidden speakers. There was even a fountain along one wall, a single, smooth sheet of water trickling down a slab of grey slate. There were no windows, but given their current location, she hadn't expected any. In spite of that fact, the whole effect was surprisingly soothing.

Of course, all the homey little touches were quite pointless, but they served to put Jordan somewhat more at ease. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised; her uncle had always done everything in style. The filthy rich bugger.

And of course, the purpose of these design choices was clearly to distract the eye from the elephant in the room — or, more accurately, the giant silver dinosaur egg in the room. In this respect, the decorator had failed spectacularly.

The contraption was roughly three feet wide by seven feet long, and perfectly oval in shape. Aside from the top, which was transparent and festooned with a bank of controls and blinking lights, the machine was entirely smooth, and composed of a metal alloy that Jordan had never seen before, and until today would have sworn existed nowhere in nature. A doctor and a technician were standing by to initiate the process, just as soon as the patient was ready.

Which she wasn't.

It was not that Jordan distrusted the technology itself. She was familiar enough with the track record of its inventor to have complete faith that the machine would do exactly what it was designed to do. She had no fears in that regard whatsoever. Her trepidation was much more personal in nature.

She felt a light touch on her arm, and turned to see her father Christopher at her side. "Pretty cool, huh?" he said, his smile decidedly strained. "I told you, didn't I?"

Jordan's gaze drifted back to the machine. "Adjectives escape me at the moment," she heard herself say.

Dr. Wainwright spoke up. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about," he told her, his voice filled with practiced reassurance. "The machine has been tested and proven over a hundred times. If there were any question as to its safety, your uncle would never have recommended the procedure. Rest assured, it's just like going to sleep."

"Except forever," Jordan murmured under her breath.

" _Not_ forever, Jordan," her father said firmly. "Just until—"

"I know, Dad. We've gone over this a million times." She gave a resigned sigh. "It's my best chance. I understand that."

Dean, her boyfriend of three years, came forward and slipped his arm around her gaunt shoulders, hyper-aware of every change in her mood. "You okay, babe?" he asked softly.

Jordan took a deep breath and forced a smile. "As long as I don't think about it too deeply, yes. I'm okay."

Her older sister Sarah unzipped the large duffel bag she was carrying and stuck a hand inside. "Look, Jojo. I brought you some stuff." She began pulling out items, one by one. "Your old jeans and your favorite shirt, to wear when you wake up. Your copy of _Hitchhiker's Guide_ , because I know you never go anywhere without it. And of course, your journal, so we won't be tempted to read it while you're..." She swallowed. "While you're in there," she finished weakly.

Jordan smiled, her eyes growing slightly moist. "Thanks, sis."

Sarah reached up and rubbed her head. "No problem, Fuzzy."

Dr. Wainwright cleared his throat unobtrusively. "Your uncle wished me to convey his apologies. He truly wanted to be here, but he had a very important meeting in Tokyo that he couldn't miss. However, he did ask me to give you this."

He retrieved a folded square of paper from his white lab coat, and Jordan took it from his fingers and opened it. Inside were a few lines, written in her uncle's familiar, manic scrawl.

_"Jordan,_

_I'm so sorry I couldn't be there today, but I couldn't get out of this damned business meeting. Inventing the future can be so annoying, am I right? But I'll be thinking about you, kiddo. And I promise I'll find a way to make you better. Have a good rest, Jojo. See you real soon._

_Love, Uncle H._

_P.S. Give your dad a noogie for me."_

Jordan couldn't help but chuckle. "What a dork," she said, handing the note to her father. "How did you ever survive with him as a brother?"

"It was a close thing," he replied wryly. "I lived in constant fear."

They were stalling now, and the doctor seemed to realize it. "Whenever you're ready, Jordan," he said patiently.

She nodded. Reluctantly, she turned to Dean, who was trying valiantly to conceal the fact that he was miserable. "Well... here I go, I guess," she said, rather lamely.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her delicately, as if she might break. After a long moment, he pulled away slightly and kissed her. "You got this, babe," he whispered.

She squeezed his hand tightly, then released it. Her sister was next, and far less hesitant about hugging the stuffing out of her. "Are you _sure_ about this, Jordan?" she asked, for the hundredth time.

"I'm sure." Sarah's lip began to wobble dangerously. "Don't do that," she ordered. "Don't even start. Everything's going to be okay. I promise." Sarah nodded, still looking unconvinced.

Letting go of Sarah, she looked up at her father, and her composure finally faltered. "Daddy," she began unsteadily.

He held her slight, frail form tightly, his head cradling the back of her fuzzy head. "Jojo," he said simply.

"Tell Uncle I said thank you," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. "For this. For everything he's done for me."

"I will," he promised.

Finally, Jordan extricated herself from his embrace and turned toward the doctor, who nodded. Slowly, she stepped up to the machine, which was humming very faintly. It looked so... alien.

She felt compelled to make some sort of speech, but she had no idea what to say. As usual, her irrepressibly odd sense of humor made the decision for her. "Don't kill my fish," she blurted. "Wait, those are terrible parting words. That's one small step for man... No, that's been done. Umm..."

"Just shut up and get in the thing," said Sarah, laughing in spite of the tears forming in her eyes.

"Yessum."

With the technician's assistance, Jordan climbed into the machine and lay on her back, ignoring her suddenly pounding heart. As the humming grew louder in her ears, she took a long, slow breath to force down the rising panic. _Just like going to sleep,_ she told herself. _I love sleep. This is going to be awesome._

Bringing a hand to her lips, she blew a kiss to her three favorite people in the world. "See you soon."

No one said "I love you", because it would be too much like saying "Goodbye".

* * *

Chakotay's helmet slipped down his forehead as he bent over in the debris. In spite of the cool temperature inside the cave, beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead. As he paused in his work to wipe away the perspiration with his sleeve, he was struck once again by the sheer immensity of the place. Not for the first time, he wondered how this site could have gone undiscovered for so long.

At first, it had been an archaeologist's dream come true, he thought. Among the underwater ruins of Los Angeles, a marine research vessel had been monitoring the migratory habits of the local wildlife when it had picked up strange readings. They had expected to find a sunken spacecraft. What they found was something much more exciting. Deep beneath the Pacific Ocean, under the ruins of the old city, a series of interconnected subterranean chambers had been carved into the very rock. By all estimates, it had been there for centuries. Even now, it might have continued undisturbed indefinitely, if it hadn't been for a routine scan by a small team of marine biologists.

As soon as he had heard the news, Chakotay had wasted no time in organizing his own archaeological expedition. After the initial team had beamed down to the site in environmental suits, lights and oxygen converters had been set up inside the chambers. Soon all that remained was to see what secrets lay hidden in this extraordinary place.

It wasn't long before the purpose of the chambers became apparent. It was clear that, before the cave-in which had caused much of the place to become buried in rubble, it had been a medical facility of some kind. Gradually, Chakotay's team had uncovered long hallways lined with doors, some leading to rooms filled with various medical equipment. Other doors led to patients' rooms, the beds half-covered in dust and debris.

But closer inspection began to reveal something strange and, to Chakotay, unsettlingly familiar about the place. The technology used in the facility was far beyond anything that would have been possible at the time it was built. In fact, it was more advanced than almost anything Chakotay had ever seen before. _Almost._

At first he had entertained the theory that the technology he was seeing came from an alien source. But this facility had been clearly built with humans in mind. In addition, all the information his team had gathered had confirmed that it had been built a little over four hundred years ago; in the year 1990, to be precise. A facility with unaccountably advanced technology, dating from the late twentieth century, buried under the ruins of Los Angeles.

It was all too perfect to be a coincidence.

Chakotay stood up, stretching the sore muscles in his back. As he did so, he looked over at his companion, crouched in the rubble. Her clothes were filthy, her blonde hair was disheveled, and a vague expression of displeasure graced her Nordic features as she stared at her tricorder. Chakotay smiled; she was gorgeous as always.

"How's it going over there?" he asked.

Seven of Nine raised a cybernetic eyebrow. "There is particulate in my scanning equipment," she said.

One less acquainted with the former Borg drone might not have read anything into her simple statement, delivered in her usual monotone. Chakotay knew better.

He came over to join her, wiping his hands on his own dusty trousers. "This place is getting to me, too," he replied. "At first I was thrilled when we began uncovering all this incredible technology. I thought maybe it was evidence that an advanced alien species had visited Earth and shared its knowledge with humans, centuries before First Contact. But _this_..." He gestured expansively, before shaking his head in disgust. "This has Chronowerx Industries written all over it."

Seven stood up, pushing her hair out of her face with a metal-laced hand. "Your incident with Henry Starling and the timeship notwithstanding," she said, "this is still an important scientific discovery, Chakotay. As you yourself stated, the technology we have found here may revolutionize the field of medicine. You should be pleased."

"I am," he said quickly. "Don't get me wrong. It's an amazing privilege, to be a part of this dig. I just..." He hesitated. "I really hated that guy," he grumbled at last.

The corner of Seven's lips quirked in a slight smile. "I thought historians were supposed to be impartial," she teased.

He gave a wry chuckle. "I would be, if the jackass hadn't tried to strand us in the twentieth century."

"That was discourteous of him," she agreed.

Chakotay took his wife's hand and threaded his fingers through hers. "I'm proud of you, by the way," he said. "I know archaeology isn't your preferred field of research. But you've been a huge help to me in this expedition. I want you to know I appreciate all of your efforts."

"I will admit I was... less than enthused by the idea," Seven said slowly. "But I must say, I have enjoyed the scientific aspect of it. Even if your method of excavation is _appallingly_ inefficient."

He laughed. "And what would you suggest?" he asked, already knowing what she was going to say.

"The solution is obvious: Lock onto all of the solid matter in the chambers and beam it to the surface for further study."

"Ah," said Chakotay, "but then you'd be leaving out the most important component of archaelogical exploration." To illustrate his point, he wiped a smudge from her cheek. "Getting dirty."

Seven's ice-blue eyes rolled skyward — or would have, if the sky had been anywhere in sight. "Human males are overgrown children," she said despairingly.

"I've got news for you. It's not just humans; it's all males."

"Tuvok would disagree."

Chakotay was about to say something to the effect of Tuvok being as boring as one of the Doctor's slide shows, when one of the other members of his team came hurrying up to them, breathing hard. "Chakotay, Seven," he said in an urgent tone. "You'd better come see this."

Chakotay frowned. "What is it, Edwards?"

The man gave a helpless shrug. "We have no idea."

"When we first excavated this chamber," he said as he led them into a small area, "we assumed it was just another patient recovery room. But when we began to clear away the debris, we found this."

Moving past his colleagues, who had crowded together in the cramped space, Chakotay came forward to get a better look, and stopped in his tracks. And stared.

"That's definitely not a hospital bed," he said.

In the middle of the room was a smooth, metallic oval object, a little over two meters in length and less than a meter wide. The top of the capsule was made of a hard, clear substance, which had been cracked by falling debris. But what it contained was still clearly visible: a bed meant to hold a single human.

"This isn't the only one," said Edwards. "We've found four others, in rooms just like these."

Seven stepped forward and scanned it with her tricorder. As she read the results in the readout display, her brow wrinkled in surprise. "I'm detecting the same poly-deutonic alloy that was used to construct the Doctor's mobile emitter."

"Twenty-ninth century technology," Chakotay said grimly. "That confirms it. This facility belonged to Henry Starling."

Seven wandered off, still frowning at her tricorder like it was playing a joke on her, while Chakotay's team showed him the other capsules, all buried and crushed by the cave-in that had occurred centuries ago. The function of the machines was unclear, but there was no doubt that they had been created using stolen technology from the future.

"That idiot," he muttered, glaring at the bizarre apparatus in front of him. "Picking and choosing what to take and exploit, like a futuristic buffet line. He probably didn't even know what these things do."

"Yes, he did," came the sudden sound of Seven's voice behind him. Her face was pale. "And so do I."

Silently, she led Chakotay and the others through a doorway, partially blocked by fallen rocks, and into another small chamber. A sixth capsule stood in the room, fully intact and humming softly.

_Humming._

"My tricorder detected a very faint energy signature," Seven said quietly. "The pod appears to be self-sustaining."

"It's still working?" Chakotay said in disbelief. "After _four hundred years?_ How?"

"I don't know." She did not sound happy about it.

Slowly, he moved closer to the capsule. The humming grew louder. He reached out and rested a hand on it, and almost drew it back in surprise. It was ice cold.

"You said you knew the purpose of these devices," he said to Seven. "What is it?"

She didn't answer. She only continued to stare at the pod.

Frowning, Chakotay used his sleeve to sweep the dust from the surface of the machine. As he did so, he suddenly realized what had gotten into Seven.

Through the transparent window, he could clearly see the figure of a human — a young woman in a white gown, pale and painfully gaunt, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. She had almost no hair on her head, only a thin layer of fuzz. There were absolutely no signs of decomposition. She was perfectly preserved. Either that, or...

"She's alive," Seven said bluntly.

Chakotay stared.

"Huh," he said.


	2. Two

In the medical bay of Jupiter Station, under the powerful lens of the electron scanning microscope, a miracle was taking place. One by one, the nanoprobes surrounded the virus, moving in perfect unison. To the tune of the Winter movement from "The Four Seasons", the probes began systemmatically to destroy the virus, leaving the healthy cells around it completely unharmed. The whole process, performed with almost uncanny precision, resembled a water ballet in miniature.

"Incredible," the Doctor murmured in a hushed, almost reverent tone. "No matter how many times I witness it, it's absolutely incredible."

His assistant, Simon Moss, stood to one side, recording his notes on a PADD and looking decidedly unimpressed. "If you say so, Doctor," he replied.

"You disagree?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the display screen.

"If I may speak freely?" The Doctor nodded. "They give me the creeps," he said frankly.

The Doctor gave an amused chuckle, and it was evident from the surprise on Moss's face that he hadn't been expecting such a mild reaction from the histrionic hologram. "That's only because you've been conditioned to associate all Borg technology with assimilation," he told him. "You must expand your horizons, Ensign."

Moss was unmoved. "Can you blame me?" he retorted. "When have the Borg ever done anything for the benefit of the galaxy? Out of the goodness of their hearts, so to speak?"

"You forget that technology can be modified, repurposed, put to better use. I'm living proof of that." Moss raised a dubious eyebrow at this. "You know what I mean," he amended quickly. "I can't understand why you don't share my fascination," he continued, his passion returning. "Just think of the possibilities. Properly reprogrammed, there's nothing these little fellows couldn't do."

"They certainly are... industrious," Moss muttered.

The Doctor shot him an exasperated glare. But before he could launch into another lecture on the benefits of an open mind, the doors to the medical bay hissed open, and a familiar figure in a gold Operations Division uniform entered. At once, the Doctor's sour expression was replaced by a genial smile.

"Ah, Lieutenant-Commander Kim," he greeted warmly. "Long time no see. They must be keeping you busy up in Ops."

Harry Kim mustered a tired smile. "They're working me to the bone, Doc," he answered as he came forward. "All the turbolifts in the starboard saucer sections are getting a complete overhaul. That's kind of why I'm here. I've been having this hot, dull pain in my elbow. And since you're the only doctor I trust..." He trailed off, casting the EMH a distinctly beseeching look. "Would you mind taking a look? If you're not too busy."

The Doctor shook his head. "Not at all," he said, waving him over to the nearest bio-bed. "Continue recording your observations, Mr. Moss."

"Yes, Doctor."

Kim perched himself on the bed and held out his arm. As the Doctor began performing his scans, he cocked his head to one side, listening to the music playing softly in the background. "Beethoven?" he guessed.

"Vivaldi." The Doctor gave a long-suffering sigh. "Honestly, Harry. You claim to be a musician, and you can't even tell the difference between German and Italian."

"Sorry, Doc," he said with a sheepish grin. "I'll have to defer to your superior knowledge."

From the other side of the medical bay, Ensign Moss spoke up. "He's been playing it all morning, Chief. Can't you order him to turn it off or something?"

"Music stimulates the brain, Moss," said Kim. "You should know that."

"That's more than I can say for your recent activities," the Doctor remarked dryly.

Kim frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You have acute tendonitis in your right elbow," he said. "Your usual duties wouldn't account for this degree of severity. More mindless holodeck programs?"

"Tennis isn't mindless!" At the Doctor's knowing smirk, Kim went on in a slightly less defensive tone. "I mean... It requires strategy as well as agility. You have to be able to anticipate your opponent's moves, to calculate the trajectory of the ball..."

The Doctor chuckled. "Lower your shields, Harry. Tennis is a fine sport. But, like most new players, you've managed to overdo it. I'm afraid you'll have to cut back on your lessons for a while, unless you wish to hyperextend the tendons all over again. A week, at the very least."

"But I was just getting good," Kim muttered in a petulant tone. The Doctor simply rolled his eyes and set to work repairing the damage the foolish young man had wrought on himself. "What are you working on, anyway?" he asked, to make conversation.

The Doctor gestured over his shoulder at the microscope's viewscreen. "Take a look for yourself."

Kim craned his head, his smooth brow wrinkling slightly as he gazed at the screen. "Borg nanoprobes?" he blurted. "Does the commander know you're messing around with those things?"

"Of course," said the Doctor irritably, disappointed by his friend's negative reaction. Organics; they were all alike. "I have her personal authorization. Besides, they're perfectly benign. Seven was generous enough to donate them for the project."

Kim made a vague noise, clearly unconvinced. "Well, just be careful," he said at last. "Something tells me Moss wouldn't enjoy being a drone."

"Very amusing," was Moss's dry response.

"Before I forget, Doc," Kim went on, "are you going to the movie tonight? They're playing _The Maltese Falcon_."

The Doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he replied. "I've taken it upon myself — perhaps unwisely — to perform Dr. Zimmerman's biannual physical this evening."

His friend winced in sympathy. "Good luck with that. Didn't he try to hide in a Jeffries' tube last time?"

At this the EMH gave a rather wicked smile. "That's why I'm going under the pretense of a friendly visit. A surprise attack, if you will. By the time the old goat catches on, he'll have nowhere to hide."

Kim laughed. After a moment, he cleared his throat in an off-hand manner. "While you're there," he said, a little too casually, "you might ask Haley if she wants to come to the movie. She could probably use a break."

The Doctor smiled to himself. "I'll do that," he said simply.

Suddenly his commbadge chirped. " _Ops to the EMH,_ " came a disembodied voice.

"Yes?" he prompted.

" _You have an incoming transmission from Earth, Doctor._ "

"Put it through to my office, please." The Doctor set aside his cellular regenerator and stepped back. "There, good as new. Remember what I said: no tennis for at least a week."

"You're the doc, Doc." Kim stood up and clapped a hand on the hologram's shoulder. "Thanks a lot. I'll see you later. And don't worry about the nanoprobes, Simon," he told Moss. "They won't bite, unless the Doctor tells them to."

"You're a riot, Chief."

Kim left the medical bay, chuckling to himself. The Doctor made his way to his own private office. The medical bay on Jupiter Station was considerably more spacious than _Voyager_ 's modest little sickbay, a fact for which the Doctor was immeasurably grateful. Then again, whoever had designed the Intrepid-class starship probably hadn't meant for its Chief Medical Officer to be forced to stare at those hideous walls for seven years straight.

It had been a little less than a year and a half since the Doctor had accepted the post of Chief Medical Officer on Jupiter Station. The offer had come on the heels of the most aggravating, demoralizing experience of his life: that of proving his own sentience.

After his little spat with the Federation legal system over the matter of his holo-novel, he had not been expecting a warm reception upon _Voyager_ 's return to Earth. But never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the nightmare that awaited him. If he was being completely honest with himself, he should have seen it coming. After all, the top brass at Starfleet Headquarters did not know him like his crew did. They had not seen his progress and personal growth over the years, or come to appreciate his value. In the eyes of the Federation, he was not a person, but a piece of technology. And as such, he belonged to Starfleet.

Without so much as a "by your leave", the Doctor's mobile emitter been confiscated for study, his program confined to Starfleet Medical in San Francisco. There was a horrible period of time in which he had fully expected to have his program permanently shut down and dismantled. Thankfully, it never came to that. But it was a crushing blow, all the same; after all he had achieved, he was again a prisoner, with no more rights than a self-sealing stem bolt. But he was _Voyager_ 's EMH. And _Voyager_ 's EMH had never been one to accept his fate meekly and without a word of protest.

When Kathryn Janeway had been informed of his situation, her righteous indignation had been truly terrifying to behold. His former captain wasted no time in demanding that a Federation tribunal be held in order to determine the Doctor's sentience. During numerous hearings over the course of several months, nearly half of the Voyager crew were called as witnesses. Every single one of them had staunchly defended his rights as an individual, citing specific examples in which he had exceeded his original programming. Even Lewis Zimmerman, the scientist who had designed his program, and who never left his home on Jupiter Station if he could help it, had shown up to support him, grudgingly admitting in his testimony that the Doctor was not the same Mark I Emergency Medical Hologram he had created; he was "a lot better".

As stressful as those hearings had been, the Doctor had been moved beyond words by the loyalty of his crew. He knew very well that he had not always been the most agreeable Chief Medical Officer, and that he had rubbed several people the wrong way over the years. But _Voyager_ was his family, and among family members, disagreements were bound to happen. Still, he had not known just how much he meant to his family, until he saw the lengths to which they were willing to go to fight for him. As Tom Paris, the father of his godchild, had so touchingly put it, "You may be an insufferable windbag, but you're _our_ insufferable windbag."

After countless hours of poring over crew members' official and personal logs and citing other examples of sentience displayed by artificial lifeforms, including Starfleet's own Lieutenant-Commander Data, the panel finally ruled that the Doctor was a sentient being and therefore entitled to the same civil rights afforded to every flesh-and-blood citizen of the Federation. As his friends surrounded him and offered their congratulatory handshakes and embraces, the sheer relief, triumph, and gratitude that had swept through him nearly caused an overload in his cognitive subroutines.

And then, less than a week after the ruling, he had been contacted by the commanding officer of Jupiter Station, Akshara Bhat. Their current Chief Medical Officer was retiring, and the Doctor's name (or lack thereof) was on her shortlist of possible replacements. After only one interview, he was offered the position. Eager to leave Earth behind for a while, he gladly accepted.

Dr. Zimmerman, of course, had pretended to be extremely put out by the news. It didn't take long, however, for the Doctor to learn that Zimmerman had been the one to recommend him. Typical.

He seated himself in front of the viewscreen, pausing to straighten the framed drawing by his goddaughter which he displayed proudly on his desk. As he activated the screen, he was greeted by the sight of another familiar face.

"Seven!" he exclaimed. "What a lovely surprise!"

The former Borg and erstwhile object of his unrequited affections graced him with a small, tired smile. She appeared uncharacteristically disheveled; her usually perfectly-coiffed golden blonde hair was in a loose ponytail, and her clothing was slightly rumpled. "I am pleased to see you as well, Doctor," she said. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all," he assured her. "I was just talking to Harry. He's going to kick himself when he finds out he missed you."

"Unfortunately, as much as I would enjoy catching up, I did not contact you merely to make conversation."

The Doctor's brow furrowed in concern. "Nothing's the matter, I hope?" At a sudden thought, he blew out a simulated sigh of exasperation. "It's the admiral, isn't it? She's been working too hard again. I've told her a thousand times to take better care of herself—"

"Admiral Janeway is in good health, Doctor," Seven said patiently. "May I continue?"

"Yes, of course," he said sheepishly. "Sorry."

Seven went on in her measured tones. "As you know, Chakotay and I have been excavating an archaelogical site beneath the ruins of Los Angeles." He nodded his comprehension. "We now believe it to be the remains of a twentieth-century medical facility." She paused. "A medical facility owned by Henry Starling."

For a moment, the Doctor's vocal processor failed to kick in. "Starling?" he croaked at last. "How do you know?"

"The facility's equipment is comparable to the technology which he appropriated from the twenty-ninth century," she explained, unaware of the sudden flood of memory files his program had involuntarily decided to review against his will — memories of abduction and agonizing torture. "We discovered several devices composed of the same alloy as your own mobile emitter."

"Wonderful," he muttered. With an effort, he pushed the memories aside and forced himself to focus. "So what do these devices do?"

"They appear to be cryostasis chambers," Seven replied. "Most of them were damaged by a cave-in; likely the result of the same earthquake which destroyed Los Angeles. However, one of the chambers is intact. What is more, it is still active."

Seven of Nine certainly had a knack, the Doctor mused, for delivering shocking news in the most casual manner. "Active?" he echoed dumbly. "How is that possible?"

"The machine is evidently powered by some kind of fusion-based generator." She shook her head. "It's more advanced than anything I've ever seen, even during my time as a drone. It requires a much more in-depth study. Which is why we've been authorized to have the chamber transported to Jupiter Station. Its facilities are the best in the quadrant." A slight smile touched her lips. "As is its Chief Medical Officer."

"I see," he said absently. For once, the compliment fell on deaf ears. _A twenty-ninth-century cryostasis chamber,_ he thought. Regardless of where it came from, there was no telling what medical breakthroughs it might lead to. Its value was incalculable.

"Well, I certainly have no objections," he said at length. "When do you propose to have it brought here?"

"As soon as possible," Seven answered. "Preparations are already underway." Again she hesitated, making the Doctor uneasy. "There is something else. The chamber is currently... occupied."

This was too much. "I beg your pardon?"

"It contains the body of a human female, between twenty-five and thirty years old. She was placed in cryostasis approximately three hundred eighty years ago."

The Doctor sat back in his chair, stunned into silence; a rare occurrence for the loquacious hologram. "That's... remarkable," he managed to say. He frowned in confusion. "But why are you telling _me_ this, Seven? Surely there are experts in cryonics you should be talking to..."

He trailed off when he saw the expression on her face. "I am telling _you_ , Doctor," she said quietly, "because you are going to revive her."

* * *

At 1800 hours, the Doctor made his way to the Holoprogramming Center in the lowermost port saucer section of the station, deep in thought. A few crew members nodded their acknowledgment as he passed. When he had first accepted the positon of Chief Medical Officer, there had been a small number of dissenters; mainly stubborn old fossils who were bent out of shape by the idea of entrusting their lives to a computer program — despite the fact that it was a computer which was responsible for keeping the entire station running. But for the most part, he had been welcomed with open arms. They were scientists, after all. Progress was their main objective.

Under normal circumstances, the Doctor would have returned the crew members' greetings. Tonight, he barely noticed them. In fact, he had passed most of the day in a daze.

Before he knew it, he was standing outside the door of the holography lab without quite knowing how he had gotten there. Shaking his head to himself, he reached up and pressed the door chime. Sounds of muffled grumbling and cursing issued from within, and after a pause so long it seemed almost intentional, the door opened, and the Doctor found himself looking into a mirror. A grizzled, unkempt, permanently foul-tempered mirror.

"Oh," Lewis Zimmerman said flatly. "It's you."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Is that any way to greet your favorite son?"

His creator scoffed. "You're not my son. You're a science project that went rogue." He moved to one side to allow the hologram to enter. "Well, you'd better come in. We might as well get this over with."

"I don't know what you mean," the Doctor said, carefully concealing his case of medical instruments behind his back as he stepped inside.

"Don't play innocent with me. You're here for my physical."

The Doctor froze in his tracks. He turned to Haley, Zimmerman's holographic assistant, who was watching the exchange with obvious amusement. "How does he do that?" Haley just shrugged her shoulders.

He smiled at the long-suffering woman he had come to regard as a sister. "How are you, Haley?" he asked, coming forward and giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Busy as always, Doctor," she replied in her soft, mellow voice.

"A certain Chief of Operations was wondering if you were going to be in attendance at the movie tonight," he informed her in a meaningful tone. "You wouldn't want to disappoint him, would you?"

Haley sighed, though not quite managing to suppress a smile. "Poor Mr. Kim," she said. "He seems to have a history of falling for the wrong women."

"In this instance, I think he has excellent taste." She rolled her eyes — a trait even she had picked up from their creator. "You should go," he told her. "Enjoy some _pleasant_ company for a change."

"Hilarious," Zimmerman dead-panned.

Haley placed a hand on the scientist's shoulder. "Lewis?" She spoke gently, like she was addressing a particularly demanding child. "Will you be all right if I leave for a couple of hours?"

"Oh, for God's sake," he said irritably, squirming away from her touch. "I'm not an infant." He made a shooing motion at her. "Go. Leave me in peace for once."

Her pretty face lit up in a smile, and his scowl softened, seemingly against his will. "And... have a good time," he muttered, almost inaudibly.

The Doctor hid his smirk, pretending to be busy unpacking his instruments. Haley gave his arm a grateful squeeze on her way out. "Don't wait up," she said with a wink.

Zimmerman shook his head as he watched her leave, before fixing the Doctor with an accusing glare. "I don't think you fully appreciate what a terrible influence you've had on her," he grumbled.

The Doctor was just glad that the rest of the station had finally been fitted with holo-emitters. The poor woman had been confined to the holography lab even longer than he had been stuck in _Voyager_ 's sickbay.

"My holographic heart bleeds for you," he told Zimmerman, who snorted. "How have you been, Lewis?"

"Same old, same old," he said evasively.

The Doctor knew better than to take him at his word. "I'll be the judge of that." He gestured with his tricorder toward the scientist's desk. "Have a seat."

Zimmerman shot him another dirty look, but for once he did as he was told. As the Doctor began taking his vital signs, testing his reflexes, and asking the obligatory questions, he felt his creator's eyes on him, watching him carefully as if he were looking for possible glitches in his program. It was mildly unsettling.

Finally the Doctor was forced to acknowledge that, despite his appalling eating and sleeping habits, his patient's health was nearly perfect. Zimmerman simply shrugged and said that he didn't need a hologram to tell him that.

As he put away his instruments, Zimmerman stood up, folding his arms over his chest. "What's wrong with you?" he asked bluntly.

The Doctor frowned, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

"You're not your usual, annoyingly effervescent self." _Thanks a lot,_ the Doctor thought sourly. But Zimmerman's expression was serious. "Sit down," he said, motioning to the chair he had just vacated. "I can tell when something's eating you. Your old man's not completely senile."

He smiled despite himself. As he sat down, he reached out and absently stroked the holographic iguana that was sprawled across Zimmerman's desk. "It's... complicated," he said at last.

"Oh. Well, never mind then."

The Doctor ignored him. "I received a transmission today," he went on, "from Seven of Nine."

"The succubus?"

"Don't call her that," he scolded absently. "I'm very happy for her and Chakotay. All that unpleasantness between us two years ago is water under the bridge. She's a dear friend, nothing more."

Zimmerman shrugged, reaching for his coffee mug. "If you say so."

Briefly, the Doctor considered wrestling the mug away from him, but now was not the time to get into a squabble over the scientist's caffeine consumption. "She contacted me about an important archaeological discovery Chakotay's team has made on Earth: a secret, underground facility belonging to Henry Starling. I've told you all about _him_." Zimmerman nodded. "Among other things, it served as a cryogenics laboratory. They've found a fully-functioning cryostasis chamber, containing a young woman."

Zimmerman's eyebrows climbed in vain toward his hairline. "You're kidding," he said. "Still alive?"

"Alive, and apparently very ill. When Seven scanned the woman, her tricorder readings showed that her spinal column was riddled with malignant growths. It would have been impossible for any twentieth-century physician to remove them without killing her. It would seem she was placed in cryostasis until a cure could be found." He sighed, rubbing his chin. "In their infinite wisdom, Starfleet has decided to bring her here. They... want _me_ to revive her and perform the procedure."

Zimmerman put his hand on his own chin as he absorbed this information, unconsciously mirroring his creation. "Well," he said at length, "it wouldn't be the first time that sort of thing has happened. If I'm remembering correctly, the _Enterprise_ -D found a satellite full of human popsicles, frozen for that very reason."

"Yes, and in the Delta Quadrant, we came upon a number of humans in suspended animation," added the Doctor. "They'd been abducted from Earth in 1937 and brought halfway across the galaxy. The decision was made to wake them; needless to say, it didn't go well. They were understandably traumatized by the whole experience. One of them even held the captain hostage with a pistol."

"Sounds like a blast," Zimmerman quipped, sipping his coffee.

"The point is," he continued peevishly, "those people were perfectly healthy. Who knows what it would do to this woman, if she woke up on a space station, four hundred years in the future? The shock alone could kill her."

But Zimmerman was shaking his head. "I'd say it's reasonable to conclude that she knew what she was getting herself into," he countered. "Obviously suspended animation was her last resort. It was either that, or a protracted illness followed by a painful death. She must have considered all the implications."

"Perhaps," the Doctor conceded reluctantly. "Even so... we have no idea who this woman is. What was her relationship to Starling? For all we know, she could be just as morally bankrupt as he was."

"Hey." He looked up to find himself on the receiving end of Lewis Zimmerman's most disapproving glare. "Didn't I program you with the Hippocratic Oath? No matter what flashy new subroutines you may have added over the years, your primary function is to _heal_." He paused, evidently making sure his meaning had sunk in. "This woman, whoever she is, is ill. She put herself in stasis in the hope that someday, someone would be able to cure her. And you can." He prodded him in the chest with his finger to emphasize his point. "So stop whining and philosophizing and just _do_ it."

The Doctor blinked up at him, momentarily rendered speechless. Twice in one day — that had to be a record.

"When you put it that way, I don't seem to have a choice," he said slowly.

Zimmerman quirked a wry smile. "That's my boy," he replied. Then he jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "Now get out."

* * *

Seven of Nine gazed out the viewport of the Danube-class runabout as it awaited permission to dock with the massive space station in orbit around Sol's fifth planet. Jupiter Station was rather unusual in its design. Unlike the typical single-mushroom shape of most Starfleet space stations, its construction consisted of a pair of three-tiered saucers, linked together by three bridges, with two arms extending out from either side. At first glance, it appeared as if it had been cobbled together using various pieces of cannibalized space stations and starships. In fact, this was exactly what it was.

When Seven had described Jupiter Station as the best of its kind in the Alpha Quadrant, she had not been exaggerating — even if she had been the kind to do so. Its facilities were unparalleled in both scale and sophistication. Its medical facilities alone boasted a dozen smaller clinics in addition to its main medical bay. But its real claim to fame was its Research and Development department. Its numerous laboratories were devoted to the studies of microbiology, exobiology, planetary science, stellar cartography, botany, astrophysics, cybernetics, and of course holography. In the past, the technology to create holograms had always taken a great deal of energy, which was why holographic projectors were usually confined to holodecks and, more recently, sickbays. However, thanks to the innovations of Lewis Zimmerman, holotechnology was becoming more and more energy-efficient. Jupiter Station was now one of a growing number of Starfleet installations equipped with holo-emitters throughout the entire facility.

Seven was not surprised, therefore, when the Doctor was not wearing his mobile emitter as he stood waiting outside the docking bay to greet her and Chakotay. At the sight of the familiar balding figure of her old friend and mentor, dressed in the black, gray, and blue uniform of the Starfleet Sciences Division, she broke into a rare, genuine smile.

"Doctor," she said, coming forward and kissing his cheek.

His own wry smile lacked its usual warmth. "Seven, Chakotay," he replied. "Welcome to Jupiter Station."

Seven was familiar enough with the Doctor's varying moods to know that he was experiencing mixed feelings about her request. She understood his trepidation. But his recent groundbreaking research using modified Borg nanotechnology made him the perfect candidate. And he knew it as well as she did.

"It's good to see you, Doctor," said Chakotay, shaking the hand the hologram extended to him. "Thank you for agreeing to this."

He inclined his head. "I'll admit I had some misgivings at first, but I've since come to view the situation from a different angle. At the very least, this woman deserves a chance at a new life."

"We feel the same way," Chakotay agreed.

The Doctor cleared his throat; merely an affectation, as he had no actual vocal chords. "Well," he prompted. "I suppose I'd better meet my patient."

He followed them back onto the runabout, where they led him through the cockpit, past the sleeping berths, and into the aft section of the craft. The dining cabin had been converted into a cargo bay, which now contained the cryostasis chamber.

Seven watched as the Doctor's gaze fell on the bizarre machine. He had seen its specifications in the data that Seven had transmitted to him, but he still could not conceal his surprise at seeing it in person. Gleaming silver and smooth in the lights of the small space, it resembled the egg of some species of giant extraterrestrial reptile. Beside its transparent window, a bank of controls was nearly invisible, so seamlessly did it blend in with the rest of the machine.

The Doctor drew up to the chamber and peered inside at its contents. Almost immediately, his features twisted in sympathy.

"Kind of tugs at the heartstrings, doesn't it?" Chakotay remarked softly.

"Indeed," he murmured.

The woman was young, not more than thirty years old, and so emaciated that the outline of her hip bones could be seen through the thin fabric of her white hospital gown. The blue of her veins stood out starkly against the dangerous pallor of her skin, and the thinness of her face was only further accentuated by the short layer of dark hair on her head, not more than a couple millimeters in length.

After a moment, the Doctor flipped open his medical tricorder and began scanning the woman. "The cancer appears to have started in her left lung and metastasized to her spinal column," he said, mostly to himself. "I'm counting no less than seventeen malignant sarcomas growing along her vertebrae. They would have caused her tremendous pain, as well as diminished mobility, headaches, nausea, loss of appetite..." He shook his head. "Frankly, I'm amazed that she survived as long as she did."

"Can you remove the growths, Doctor?" Seven asked, fairly certain of the answer.

"Yes, easily," he replied, his eyes still on the woman. "Actually, it's a fairly straight-forward procedure. It's simply a matter of reprogramming some of your nanoprobes to attack the cancerous tissue. Of course," he added grimly, "that's assuming the patient survives the reanimation process."

Chakotay spoke up. "We've been examining the device's controls." He handed a PADD to the Doctor, who absorbed its contents with inhuman speed and efficiency. "Whoever designed it — and I think it's safe to say it _wasn't_ Starling — they clearly intended it to be easy enough for a layman to operate. If it works like it's supposed to, there should be no problems."

"All the same, I would prefer to be prepared in case something goes wrong," said the Doctor. "We can't assume that the device will work perfectly after four hundred years." He stepped back and shut his tricorder with a snap. "I'd like to have the pod transported to the medical bay."

"Of course." Chakotay left the aft cabin to make the arrangements.

"There is one other thing, Doctor." Seven moved to a row of lockers that stood against one wall and opened one. She pulled out a small, hermetically sealed container and held it out to him. "We found it beside the cryostasis chamber, buried under the debris."

He frowned, taking it in his hands. "What is it?"

"Her personal effects."

As he held it, she removed the lid, breaking the airtight seal. There was only a handful of objects inside: a set of clothing, and two books. One was a novel, its pages yellowed and dog-eared from age and multiple re-readings. The other appeared to be a journal. On its cover was written a name in small, neat letters.

_Jordan Starling._

The Doctor's brown eyes met Seven's blue ones.

"Damn," he muttered.


	3. Three

The Doctor stared down at the inert woman through the clear window of the cryostasis pod. She bore little resemblance to the man who had once reconfigured his tactile response sensors and then watched casually as he subjected him to excruciating pain. Unlike Henry Starling, who had had blonde hair and a fair complexion, this young woman was dark-haired, and her paleness was clearly not natural. Her strong nose and Mediterranean features obviously pointed toward a mixed ancestry. She was quite pretty, in spite of her unhealthy weight and extreme pallor.

Jordan Starling.

_Why_ did she have to be a Starling?

He picked up the journal, turning it over in his hands. "Have you read it?" he asked Seven.

She paused a moment in consideration before replying. "Chakotay felt it would be... disrespectful," she said carefully. "If the woman is unable to be resuscitated, then there would be no reason _not_ to read it. But if your attempts are successful..."

"Then we should respect her privacy," he finished. Seven nodded, her face impassive. "Is that... wise, do you think?"

"No, it is not," she said frankly. "Like you, I prefer to be prepared. In my own experience, a lack of crucial information often has undesirable consequences. However, it is the... right thing to do."

She did not sound pleased about it. The Doctor couldn't blame her one bit. Reviving a woman who had been in stasis for nearly four centuries — a woman who was related to a man who almost caused a temporal explosion that would have resulted in the death of billions — was foolhardy enough. But to do so while ignoring knowledge about her that could be vital seemed like the height of recklessness. Sometimes decorum had to be sacrificed for the sake of prudence.

"If I were to list all my objections to this entire venture," he muttered, "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

Seven's lips curved in a sly smirk. "Fortunately, there was nothing preventing me from accessing her personal information from historical records." She held a PADD out to the Doctor, forcing him to set down the journal in order to take it. "Her full name is Jordan Diana Starling. Born July 18, 1967 in Stamford, Connecticut, to Christopher Starling and Helena Petros. Christopher," she added, "was Henry Starling's elder brother."

"So Miss Starling here is his niece," the Doctor murmured. He scrolled down through the information Seven had gathered. "It says here that she graduated from Le Cordon Bleu in 1989 with an Associates Degree in Culinary Arts." He glanced over at the woman in some surprise. "She's a chef."

" _Was_ a chef," Seven corrected him. "Her medical records list an increasing number of hospital visits, beginning in 1991. Her employment history ends abruptly during the same year. Evidently, she was forced her to give up her career due to her illness."

"Yes, she would have to," he said thoughtfully. "For someone with serious health problems, the fast-paced environment of a professional kitchen would have been far too stressful. And the various aromas would have only exacerbated her nausea." He shook his head. "It must have been very difficult."

"You sympathize with her," Seven observed.

The Doctor sighed. "Of course I do, Seven," he replied. "I have sympathy for anyone who is ill."

"Then this information has served to alleviate your reservations?"

He put a hand to his forehead. She was always so logical, so pragmatic, he thought to himself. Unfortunately, life was not always so black-and-white.

"She seems harmless enough," he admitted reluctantly. "But that's still no reason to abandon all caution. Let's not forget, Henry Starling was known in his time as a philanthropist and humanitarian, and he was a classic example of a man suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorder."

Seven's smirk returned. "I am suddenly reminded of an antiquated Earth idiom involving a pot and a kettle," she teased lightly.

Sometimes he wished he had never taught her sarcasm.

Shortly, the cryostasis chamber was transported to the medical bay. Its windows, which usually commanded a splendid view of Jupiter, were covered, and all except essential personnel were temporarily dismissed. His assistant, Simon Moss, was standing by, prepared to administer aid in whatever capacity was needed. Seven and Chakotay were present as well, observing from a discreet distance. There was nothing left for it but to begin.

The Doctor compared the readouts from the chamber's control panel with the data from his own tricorder. "All metabolic functions are suspended," he said. "Brain activity is minimal. I will now initiate the reanimation sequence."

His fingers moved swiftly over the bank of controls, beginning the process of reviving the patient from subzero temperatures. As he worked, he was conscious of the familiar, subtle change in his program as the protocols for professional detachment overrode his emotional subroutines.

"Body temperature is six degrees Celsius and rising," he observed, watching the number climb steadily on the readout display. "Nine degrees. Eleven." He consulted his tricorder. "Metabolic functions are... unchanged."

Seven and Chakotay shared a concerned glance.

"Temperature at fourteen degrees," said the Doctor. "Still no change." He turned to Moss. "Prepare thirty CCs of tricordrazine."

"Yes, Doctor."

A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the steady hum of the cryostasis pod and the beeping of the Doctor's tricorder. "Sixteen degrees," he said at last. "That's good enough. Opening the chamber now."

The top of the machine slid open with a hiss, and the medical bay was suddenly filled with frigid air. The patient lay lifeless within, her skin cold and her lips a sickly bluish-purple. The Doctor, with Moss's assistance, lifted her out and deposited her onto a nearby bio-bed, where he activated its infrared heaters to raise her temperature further.

"Administering tricordrazine." The Doctor took the hypospray from Moss and injected it in the side of her neck. After a moment, he shook his head. "No effect. The cortical stimulator, Ensign."

Moss handed him the small device, which he attached to the patient's forehead. "I've set the pulse to fifty millijoules. On my mark."

At his signal, Moss initiated the pulse. The patient's body gave a jerk, but there was no other response. "Again," said the Doctor.

The patient jerked again on the bio-bed. Suddenly, she sucked in a breath. Color began to return to her face. "Lungs and heart resuming normal functions," he said, quickly scanning her vital signs. "Neural activity increasing." As relief slowly trickled into his emotional subroutines, he allowed himself a small smile. "I think we've done it."

He watched as the woman's dark eyelashes fluttered. And then he found himself looking down into a pair of the most enormous gray eyes he had ever seen. They swiveled around for a moment in fear and confusion, before settling on him.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out. "It's all right," he told her. "You're quite safe."

She swallowed and tried to speak again. "H-how... long?" Her voice came out as a raspy whisper. "How long have I been asleep?"

The Doctor glanced at Seven and Chakotay. They appeared momentarily stunned. But before he could reply, the woman tried to sit up. "Try to lie still," he said, gently forcing her back down.

She was shivering. A good sign; it meant her body had resumed its ability to generate its own heat. He quickly increased the temperature of the infrared lamps. "Where am I?" she asked through chattering teeth. "Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor," he answered in his most soothing voice. "Miss Starling, I presume?"

She licked her lips and nodded. "Yes, that's me. Jordan Starling. Do you know my uncle?"

"I..." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Let's just say his reputation precedes him."

"Is he here?"

The Doctor shared another quick glance with Chakotay and Seven. Apparently they weren't going to make this any easier for him. "Miss Starling," he said, watching her features very closely, "I'm afraid this is going to come as quite a shock. Since you have been in stasis, a great deal of time has passed."

"Oh, God." A pale, trembling hand came up to cover her mouth. "I thought it might have. How much time? What year is it?"

He hesitated. Seven, of course, chose that moment to break her silence. "The year is 2380," she said in her usual blunt manner.

The Doctor glared at her in annoyance, before returning his attention to Jordan Starling. Her shivering had increased, and her eyes were even wider. "2380," she repeated, her gaze fixed and far-away. "That's... almost four hundred years." She spoke evenly, but her bottom lip began to wobble. "Umm... I wasn't quite expecting that."

At seeing her distress, Chakotay came forward, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Miss Starling," he said quietly, "I can't imagine how upsetting this must be for you."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No, it's okay. I mean, it's _not_ , definitely _not_ okay, but... I was warned that this was a possibility." She sat up on her elbows, ignoring the Doctor's protestations. "I'm sorry, what were your names?"

"I don't actually have a name," said the Doctor, now accustomed to the strange look he received from his patient in reply. "It's a long story. Just 'Doctor' will do." He indicated Ensign Moss, who had been silent the entire time, presumably struck dumb. "This is my assistant, Simon Moss."

"How do you do?" he managed weakly.

"And this is Chakotay and Seven of Nine." They both nodded. "Seven is the one who found you."

Miss Starling's dark eyebrows drew together. "Found me?"

"We uncovered your... uncle's facility," Chakotay replied carefully. "During an archaeological dig."

"Archaeological?" The woman shook her head. "No offense, but why did it take nearly four hundred years for anyone to find me? It's not as if I was going anywhere."

Seven spoke again. "In the year 2047, an event known as the Formosa Earthquake caused the city of Los Angeles to become submerged beneath the Pacific Ocean," she explained. "When that occurred, the facility was buried along with it. It was only recently rediscovered, by a marine research team which was surveying the area."

Miss Starling's mouth dropped open. "Los Angeles _sank_ under the _ocean?_ Sweet Jesus." She passed a thin hand across her face. "Well. I suppose I should be thanking you for finding me." Her voice wavered slightly. "I might have been forgotten down there forever."

The Doctor experienced a stab of sympathy. Starling or not, this woman had been through a terrible ordeal, and it was far from over.

"So... what is this place, anyway?" she asked. "Some kind of hospital?"

And then there was that. "There is no easy way to say this, Miss Starling," he said quietly. "We are not currently on Earth. We're aboard a space station, in supersynchronous orbit around the planet Jupiter."

She stared at him for a long time, her expression curiously blank. "We're in space," she said at last.

"Yes." He winced inwardly.

"Sweet Jesus." She cleared her throat. "Can I... see?"

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Perhaps later," he replied. "Right now you need your rest."

She blinked in bewilderment. "I haven't rested enough?"

"Your body has just experienced a severe trauma from the reanimation process," he said. "It needs time to recover before we can proceed with removing the cancerous tissue."

"Removing the..." The Doctor watched as her eyes grew to almost inhuman proportions. "You... You mean, you found a way?" she asked in a small voice.

He nodded, unable to suppress a self-satisfied smile.

"Damn it!" His smile vanished, replaced by confusion. "Damn it, damn it, _damn_ it!" she exclaimed.

"That was not the reaction I had expected," he couldn't help remarking.

She shook her head. "You don't understand," she said desperately. "My uncle was going to wake me when his team of experts found a way to cure me. He was going to foot the bill for everything. But it wasn't supposed to take four hundred years! Something must have gone wrong!" She swallowed hard. "I... I have no way to pay you."

The Doctor smiled again. "Please don't upset yourself," he told her gently. "There's no need to worry about reimbursement. Money was done away with on Earth a long time ago."

"The Doctor's right," said Chakotay. "All forms of currency were dissolved in the late twenty-second century, under the New World Economy."

"No money?" she asked incredulously. "How does that even work? How do you afford all _this?_ " She gestured expansively at the medical equipment around them.

"I realize it's a difficult concept to grasp," said the Doctor. "I promise, all of your questions will be answered in due time. But for the moment, you need to avoid any unnecessary stress." He placed a hand on her bony shoulder. "Now please, lie down. I'm going to give you a sedative, to help you sleep. Just for a few hours. It's perfectly safe."

Instantly, she became alarmed. "No. No, I don't want to sleep. Who knows what year it will be the next time I open my eyes?"

"Miss Starling," he said softly, "trust me."

Her fearful gaze held his for a long moment, before she finally nodded. He eased her back down on the bio-bed and pressed a hypospray to her neck. Her panicked breathing began to slow, her rigid frame relaxed, and her eyelids fell shut. Before long, she was resting comfortably.

A shared sigh of relief swept through the medical bay. Moss sank against the nearest console. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "That was painful to watch."

Chakotay rubbed the back of his neck. "Actually," he said slowly, "it went slightly better than I thought it would."

Seven stared at him in exasperation. But the Doctor's gaze remained on his patient, sleeping peacefully, the image of her haunted gray eyes still fresh in his memory banks.

* * *

Jordan sank into dark dreams. Fragmented images passed through her mind, of strange people and even stranger surroundings. Voices she didn't know echoed in her ears, telling her incredible, impossible things. And above it all, she heard her own voice, filled with false cheer, repeating the same words over and over.

_"Everything's going to be okay... I promise..."_

She woke with a gasp. At once she was seized with a crippling panic, unable to move or even speak. She felt as if she was being crushed under an invisible weight. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself to regulate her breathing. After half a dozen breaths, sensation slowly returned to her limbs, and she flexed her fingers experimentally.

Very cautiously, she opened her eyes. The moment she did so, it all came back to her. Waking up colder than she had ever been in her life, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. A blonde woman with machinery on her face, telling her that the year was 2380, and that she had been in stasis for nearly four hundred years. A bald man with deep frown lines and pity in his eyes, inexplicably urging her to sleep. As if she hadn't already been sleeping for centuries.

With some considerable effort, Jordan managed to sit up on the narrow bed on which she was lying and looked around. It was still here — the large, vaguely hospital-like room with its curving walls and sleek furniture and blinking machines. It hadn't been a dream.

It was all real.

An all-too-familiar wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her, causing her to double over on the bed. She tried to ignore the fear and despair that threatened to engulf her, the persistent voice in her head screaming that she was totally alone, that everyone she had ever loved was gone, and she would never see them again. _But I'm alive,_ she told herself, clenching her fists in her lap. _And that's what they wanted. They would be happy for me._

The thought did little to comfort her.

She looked around the room, trying to distract herself. As she did so, she gradually became aware of a faint sound, rising above the whirring and beeping of the various medical equipment: that of someone humming. It was coming from somewhere nearby. And what was more, it was a tune she recognized.

Throwing off the strange, shimmery gray blanket which was covering her, Jordan swung her legs over the edge of the bed and eased herself onto the floor, fighting off another bout of nausea. She took a few steps on shaky legs, straining her ears to determine where the humming was coming from. She followed it out of the main area to a smaller room which appeared to be an office, where she was forced to lean against the doorway to recover her strength.

Seated behind a desk was the man she had met before; not the man with the tattoo, or the nervous-looking young man who had avoided her eyes like she was some kind of Gorgon who would turn him to stone. It was the bald man, the doctor in the strange black-and-gray militaresque uniform with teal on the cuffs and collar. The man who had said that he had no name. He appeared to be reading something from a small, flat device in his hand, and he was humming to himself in a soft tenor.

The song he was humming was "Un'aura Amorosa" from _Cosi fan tutte_ , and it was only familiar to Jordan because she had been forced by her father to listen to it roughly a thousand times. He had never fully succeeded in turning his children into opera enthusiasts, but it hadn't been for lack of trying. Still, the tune had been one of his favorites. The sudden reminder caused her heart to twist painfully.

Blinking back tears, she said, "It's good to know that people still appreciate Mozart in the twenty-fourth century."

The man started slightly, clearly unaware of her presence until now. "Miss Starling!" He stood up and moved toward her, his surprise turning quickly to disapproval. "You really shouldn't be up and about. You're still extremely weak."

"You're telling me." With the man's assistance, Jordan sat down in a chair opposite his desk. As he hovered nearby, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Nearly 0400 hours."

_So they go by military time in the future,_ she thought. _Great._ "Four in the morning? Have you been here this whole time?" He nodded dismissively. "You poor man, _you_ should be sleeping!"

He gave a wry sort of turned-down smile that looked almost like a frown. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine," he said, settling back against the edge of his desk and crossing his arms over his chest. "Actually... I don't require sleep. I'm a hologram."

For a moment, the word failed to register in Jordan's mind, except to conjure images of 3-D baseball cards. "A hologram?" she repeated. "You mean you're... a projection? Like Al from _Quantum Leap_?"

He appeared briefly thrown. "I... don't know who that is," he answered slowly. "But you seem to be familiar with the term. Yes, I'm a projection. To be more accurate, I am a computer simulation expressed as a three-dimensional image."

A hologram. A walking, talking projection. The idea seemed beyond the reach of human ingenuity. Then again, she was currently aboard a space station, four hundred years in the future. There was no telling how far technology had come. Still, this was almost more than she could comprehend.

"But... you're solid," she argued. "I remember, you touched me earlier. How can a projection be... tangible?"

"My holomatrix is held together by a containment field," he explained, as if any of those words would mean anything to her.

Jordan's hand reached out toward him, almost of its own accord. "May I?"

The man uncrossed his arms and stood up straight, offering his hand to her. Slowly, she took it, surprised at its warmth. "Amazing," she breathed. "You feel... real."

He pulled his hand out of her grasp. "I _am_ real," he said, a trifle sharply. "I may not be made of flesh and blood, but I'm every bit as alive as anyone else."

Jordan rose quickly to her feet, which caused her to sway as another wave of dizziness hit her. His hand went to her shoulder to steady her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," she told him. "All of this is just a lot to take in at once. But an artificial life form... That's so cool."

The man relaxed, evidently appeased by her contrition. At a sudden thought, she asked, "Is that why you said you didn't have a name?"

He helped her to sit down again. "That's correct. I'm what is called an Emergency Medical Hologram, or EMH. In the event of a disaster, I am meant to serve as a supplement or replacement surgeon. Nine years ago, the starship _Voyager_ lost its Chief Medical Officer, and I was activated to take his place. I've been online ever since." He gave a small shrug. "To answer your question, EMHs aren't programmed to have names. My official title is 'EMH Program AK-1 Diagnostic and Surgical Subroutine Omega-323', but that doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."

Jordan laughed, surprising herself. She had not felt like laughing in a long time. From the expression on his face, he hadn't been expecting it either. _A hologram with a sense of humor,_ she thought, shaking her head. _This is surreal._ "Did no one ever give you a name?" she asked.

"People have tried over the years, but nothing ever seemed to stick," he replied. "After a while, I became accustomed to being known simply as 'The Doctor'."

"It _is_ distinctive," Jordan had to admit. "I bet not many people can get away with having a definite article for a first name."

The Doctor smiled again. "No, I suppose not."

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Abruptly she became aware of what a sight she must look — pale, hollow-cheeked, and nearly bald, her hideous white hospital gown hanging from her emaciated frame like a tent. _Hospital gown._ That reminded her of something...

"My stuff!" she blurted. The Doctor's eyebrows rose. "I mean... Is there any chance that the, uhh... the archaeological team found a small, airtight container with some clothes and books inside?"

"As a matter of fact..." He moved across the office to a cabinet set into the wall and opened its doors. Jordan's breath caught in her throat as he retrieved the box in question, removed its lid, and set it carefully on the desk.

She cast a grateful glance up at him. "Thank you, Doctor." Scooting to the edge of her chair, she leaned forward and began lifting items out one by one. First, her copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. "My favorite book," she said, tracing her fingers over the battered cover. "I know it's not Shakespeare or Homer, but it always makes me laugh."

Next came her old, ripped jeans, a pair of ballet flats, a pill-covered cardigan, and a T-shirt with the words "Magical Mystery Tour" emblazoned across the front. "I got this shirt in Liverpool, on a spring break trip to England," she explained with a nostalgic smile. "I assume the Beatles are still as iconic as they were in my time?"

The Doctor winced slightly. "Rock and roll is not my preferred genre of music," he admitted, sounding slightly embarrassed. "But I know several people who are fans of their work."

She _tsk_ ed in disapproval. "You don't know what you're missing." Finally, she pulled out a small, thick notebook. "My journal." She cleared her throat. "You didn't... read it, did you?"

He shook his head. "On my honor," he replied, raising his hand, "or may my program be decompiled."

Jordan gave a rueful smile. "Not that there's anything shocking or scandalous in it. My life was never that interesting." Her smile faded. "Until now, I guess."

She flipped through her journal, skimming over several years' worth of memories, ranging from pleasant to horrible: work parties, family camping trips, cooking Valentine's Day dinners together with her boyfriend, neverending chemo and radiation therapy sessions, sleepless nights spent wishing she was someone else, wondering why this had happened to her.

Wondering guiltily how long it would take everyone to forget her when she was gone.

A tear splashed onto the pages of her journal, causing the ink to bleed. "This is all I have left," she whispered, wiping tear tracks from her face. "Just some clothes and a couple of books. Why didn't I take more? Why didn't I grab a family photo album, or some old letters, or... _anything_ else?" A choked sob escaped her. "They're all gone, and I have nothing to remember them by."

She felt a warm hand on her shoulder. "You have your memories," the Doctor said in a low voice, "and you have the knowledge that your family loved you and wanted you to be healthy."

"I don't want memories. And I don't want any of _this_. I just want to go home." Fresh tears escaped her eyes, and she didn't even bother to brush them away. "I thought I was prepared for this, but... I'm not prepared. Not even a little." She shook her head. "What am I going to do? What's going to happen to me?"

The Doctor gently took the journal from her hands and set it aside. He knelt beside her chair, his brown eyes filled with compassion. "Miss Starling," he said softly, "I am truly sorry for everything you've gone through. But try to think of it this way. You've been given a chance at a new life. That's exactly what your family wanted for you, isn't it?"

Jordan was silent. "I'm not going to offer you any empty platitudes," he went on. "I imagine you've heard more than your fair share. We both know this won't be easy. But I want you to know you're not alone. I will do whatever I can to help you through this ordeal. I promise."

_I promise._ That's just what her uncle had said. But where was he now?

The Doctor rose to his feet. "Your first treatment is scheduled for later today," he said. "The procedure involves injecting nanoprobes — microscopic machines — into your spinal fluid. The nanoprobes are programmed to attack and destroy cancerous cells, while leaving the healthy cells intact. I know it sounds intimidating, but I assure you, it will be completely painless. I expect it will only take two or three treatments before you are completely cancer-free."

Cancer-free. It sounded like too much to hope for. But he spoke with such complete confidence that Jordan found herself wanting to believe him. "As I mentioned earlier," he continued in a breezy manner, "currency was done away with a long time ago, so remuneration is not an issue. However, if you feel the need to repay me, you can do so by getting well. Are you prepared to follow a strict regimen consisting of a nutrient-rich diet and light exercise?"

Who was this person? This brilliant, bossy projection, with his mercurial moods and silly upside-down smile, who hummed tunes from operas and spoke so casually about injecting tiny machines into her spine? Was she still dreaming?

Jordan cleared her throat. "I am," she said with some difficulty.

"Excellent." He hesitated for a moment. "There is one more thing. There's a high probability that you will be asked to return to Earth. It's my professional opinion that you should decline." Her eyes widened at this. "Earth has changed a great deal since you last saw it. I'm concerned that the change would cause you stress, which would impede your recovery. When you are well again, you are certainly free to go wherever you wish, but in the meantime... I think it would be best if you remained here."

Who was she to argue with the man who was going to save her life? "Whatever you say, Doctor," she said.

He nodded, looking satisfied. "Your first treatment begins in just a few hours. I'm sure you won't enjoy hearing this, but you should try to get a little more rest."

Jordan felt her pulse quicken at the thought. "If I have to," she replied.

The Doctor helped her to her feet. Taking her by the elbow, he guided her back into the larger room (Hospital? Clinic?) and eased her onto the narrow bed on which she had woken earlier. She tried her best not to break free from his grasp and run like hell in the opposite direction.

After covering her with the ugly shiny blanket, he stepped back. "Computer, dim lights by seventy-five percent," he said, seemingly to no one.

To Jordan's surprise, the lighting instantly dimmed, becoming much more restful. "Cool trick," she remarked weakly.

He smiled. "Sleep well, Miss Starling."

He turned to leave, and suddenly it was too much for her to handle. "Wait," she blurted. He paused, looking at her expectantly. "Do you think you could stay with me, until I fall asleep?" she asked, mortified at how pathetic she sounded. "The thought of being alone doesn't really appeal to me right now."

She half-expected that expressive face to furrow into a put-upon frown. Instead, the Doctor's smile returned. "Of course," he said kindly.

Jordan sighed in relief. He moved to take a seat at a nearby console, then paused. "Is there anything you would like me to get for you? Anything I can do?"

_Tell me this is all a dream,_ she thought. _Tell me that when I wake up, Dad and Sarah and Dean and Uncle Henry will be there to hug me and welcome me back. Give me a time machine, so I can go home. Just... please say this isn't forever._

She swallowed and looked down at her fidgeting hands, feeling the tips of her ears grow hot. "You... could hum some more of that aria, if you want," she said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

Her eyes met the Doctor's, and she was struck by the warmth in his gaze. How? How could a computer simulation be capable of _warmth?_

"I can do that," he murmured.

Seating himself in the chair, he began humming the familiar tune, softly so as not to keep his patient awake. Slowly, Jordan's eyes drifted shut as she listened to the soothing tenor voice. At last she drifted off to sleep with the lyrics of the aria running through her head: _Al cor che nudrito da speme, da amore, di un'esca migliore bisogno non ha._

_A heart nourished by hope, by love_

_Has no need of a greater lure._

 


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Real life has been making far too many demands on my time of late. Thank you to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos on my story so far. It means a lot to me. Here's the latest chapter. Hope you enjoy, if not thoroughly, then at least mildly!
> 
> Also, I love comments. Comments is good.

"You did _what?_ "

The Doctor was unfazed by Chakotay's outburst. "I fail to see the problem," he said with a casual shrug. "I simply recommended that Jordan Starling should remain aboard Jupiter Station for the duration of her recovery."

Standing beside him in the station commander's office, Chakotay raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, as if he were suddenly developing a headache. "Doctor... I wish you hadn't done that. Starfleet wants Miss Starling brought to Headquarters as soon as possible."

"I expected nothing less," the hologram replied. "But my first duty is to my patient. Always. You know that, Chakotay."

At her desk, Commander Akshara Bhat sat calmly, her hands clasped before her on the gleaming surface. Though it was the early hours of the morning, she possessed all of her usual poise, and not one hair on her head was out of place. "But Miss Starling is not just any patient, Doctor," she pointed out. "She is one of only a handful of people from the twentieth century to be successfully revived from cryostasis. She's living history. She personally witnessed events that we have only read about. You must understand, that makes her of great interest to Starfleet."

"Of course I _understand_ , Commander." The Doctor's tone was at its most bitter and acerbic. "I'm sure _countless_ scientists and historians back on Earth are already waiting in line to poke and prod her. That's precisely the problem."

She shot him a warning look, and he checked himself with an effort; his temper would do nothing to help matters here. "She is under a tremendous amount of stress at the moment," he said slowly. "Subjecting her to even further trauma would be, not just irresponsible, but cruel."

"What about her relationship to Henry Starling?" asked Chakotay. "She was close to him. She has first-hand information about him that could be important."

The Doctor had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "The man is dead, Chakotay. The information can wait a little while longer. Besides, he was her uncle. Forcing her to talk about him would just bring up painful memories."

He tried to ignore the fact that his former commander was looking at him as if he had slipped the surly bonds of his sanity. "I thought you hated him, Doctor."

"I loathed him," he said impatiently. "That's beside the point."

"Is it?" Chakotay pressed. "Less than a day ago, you were having doubts about reviving her. Why are you protecting her now?"

"Because she's a person, not a lab specimen!" he snapped, losing his temper at last. This briefing was not going at all like he had predicted.

He forced himself to continue more calmly. "Yes, I had reservations. But then I woke her. I spoke with her. She's not a threat to anyone. She's just a very sick young woman who has suffered a terrible loss. She needs time to recover, to grieve, to start a new life for herself. If we send her back to Earth in her current condition, it could trigger an emotional breakdown." He paused to let his words sink in. "Do you want that on your conscience? Because I certainly don't."

"The Doctor is right."

Surprised, the Doctor turned to Seven, who had been silent during most of the briefing. "When my link to the Collective was severed," she went on quietly, "I was frightened, confused, angry. Adjusting to my new life, to the very concept of individuality, was a long and difficult process. But I am convinced that the small, close-knit environment aboard _Voyager_ greatly aided in that process." She appeared to be choosing her words carefully. "It is... unlikely that I would have adapted as quickly if I had been on Earth. I believe it would be best if Jordan Starling remained here until she has adapted as well."

The Doctor gave her a grateful smile. "Thank you, Seven."

Commander Bhat gazed down at her clasped hands, deep in thought. "You all make valid points," she said at length. "Ultimately, it is Miss Starling's decision. We cannot force her to return to Earth." Finally she raised her gaze to meet the Doctor's. "Perhaps Starfleet can wait. Provided you send them regular reports on her progress."

He nodded, relief flooding his algorithms. "Of course, Commander," he said, beaming.

Chakotay sighed, shaking his head. "All right, Doctor," he conceded. "We do it your way. Just... keep something in mind."

One of the more unfortunate traits of a Zimmerman EMH was a tendency toward smugness. Having gotten the commander on his side, the Doctor now found it difficult to conceal his satisfaction. "Hmm?" he said blithely. "What's that?"  
  
The man surprised him by placing a hand on his shoulder. "You can't keep her sheltered forever," he said in a low voice. "I understand you want to protect her. But sooner or later, she'll have to face the real world. I just hope she's ready for it."

For once, the Doctor was not quite certain how to answer.

* * *

The medical bay of Jupiter Station was cold. Or at least, Jordan thought it was cold. For all she knew, the temperature was probably quite comfortable. But she couldn't seem to stop shivering. _No kidding, genius,_ she thought ruefully. _You've only been frozen for nearly four centuries._

At least she was no longer wearing that paper-thin hospital gown. She had been given a set of dark blue, loose-fitting clothes, as well as a pair of thick, fluffy socks that were softer than anything she had ever owned. The color and cut of the clothing only accentuated her bony frame and sickly pallor, but it wasn't as if she was going to be winning any beauty contests anyway. A hat or a scarf for her head would have been nice, though.

As she sat on her narrow bed in its alcove against one wall, Jordan watched the holographic doctor consult the electronic readout on a small handheld device. He waved it like a magic wand up and down her body, while it emitted mysterious little beeps. He was in high spirits this morning; she assumed it was morning, though she had no way of knowing. He seemed a little overly fond of the sound of his own voice, but Jordan didn't mind. His easy chatter was a welcome distraction from her own gloomy thoughts. The full impact of what she had been through still hadn't fully set in, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

The Doctor set down the strange device and picked up another one — a thin, flat object with a screen that contained writing, sort of like one of those Apple Newtons, only not as lame. "Before we begin the procedure, I'd like to ask you a few questions," he said. "I was able to retrieve your medical files from historical records, but I need you to confirm some things."

Historical records. If he was able to find information about her, perhaps she might be able to ascertain what had become of her family and friends. The thought made her heart rate increase. "All right," she managed to reply.

"You were born on July 18, 1967, correct?" Jordan nodded her confirmation. "And your current age?"

She couldn't help herself. "Four hundred-thirteen." The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, bad joke. I'm twenty-nine."

"Then you were placed in cryostasis in 1996," he said. For some reason, this caused him to frown pensively to himself. After a moment he shook his head. "You were first diagnosed with cancer in 1991?"

And there it was. Her least favorite word in the English language. "Yes. It started in my lungs, and then moved on to my spine."

He consulted his little Newton-looking device again. "According to your medical history, your paternal grandmother died of lung cancer."

"Yeah, but she smoked like a chimney practically her entire life," said Jordan. Her words seemed to puzzle him. "Cigarettes?" she clarified. "People literally called them 'cancer sticks'."

"Ah, of course." He looked up at her. "And did you ever...?"

"Smoke?" She pulled a face. "No. It dulls your sense of taste. You kind of need that when you're a chef." She blew out a breath. "I'll save you some time, Doctor. I never did drugs. Only had a few alcoholic drinks a month. Tried to eat healthy and stay in shape. And I got cancer at twenty-four." She gave a humorless laugh. "My great-grandpa never took care of himself, and he lived to be ninety-three. How's that for fair?"

The Doctor's wide mouth twitched in a wry smile. "Yes, some people seem to live in _spite_ of themselves. My friend Tom Paris is a classic example. And his wife." His brow furrowed. "Come to think of it, an alarming number of my friends behave as if they're hell-bent on getting themselves killed. I wonder what that says about _me_."

"That you're in the right profession?" He rolled his eyes, and she smiled. "Don't worry, Doctor. I won't cause you any trouble. I'm an exceptionally boring individual."

"I'm sure that's not true," he replied graciously.

At that moment the main doors of the medical bay slid open with a pleasingly futuristic hissing sound, and the Doctor's assistant entered. "Ah!" the hologram exclaimed brightly. "Ensign Moss, punctual as always. I was just filling in some gaps in Miss Starling's medical history. Whenever you're ready, I'd like the first injection of nanoprobes, if you please."

"Yes, Doctor," he answered. As he prepared to do... whatever it was he did, he glanced up at her. "Miss Starling," he greeted politely.

He was rather handsome in a sharp-featured sort of way, with pale blond hair and clear blue eyes. He spoke with a clipped English accent. "Hello again," she said. "Simon, right?" He nodded curtly. "Call me Jordan. That goes for you, too, Doctor."

The man inclined his head. "Jordan," he amended with a slight smile. "Welcome to the twenty-fourth century."

"Thanks. It's very... gray."

He barked a laugh. "Wait until you see the rest of the station."

"You're not preparing the nanoprobes, Mr. Moss," the Doctor said in a sing-song voice.

Moss sighed and resumed his work, while Jordan watched, anxiously chewing her lip. "You're certain this is safe?" she asked, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. "It's just, I've had a lot of doctors recommend treatments, and then the laundry list of side effects were even worse than the cancer."

Ensign Moss snorted. "I'm not surprised. Radiation and cytotoxic chemotherapy were some of the biggest embarrassments in the history of medicine, and only marginally more effective than bloodletting."

"That's not entirely accurate," said the Doctor, casting a slightly reprimanding look at his assistant before turning to Jordan. "They were proven effective in treating some types of cancer, including leukemia and Hodgkin's lymphoma. But on the whole, I'm afraid their results were not worth the damages they caused. And few people who underwent such treatments enjoyed the benefits for very long."

Although hearing all of her suspicions confirmed was a relief, it was also rather demoralizing to know that all the suffering she endured had been for nothing. "I always had my doubts about it," she murmured. "The whole idea of injecting your body with poison in order to heal it seemed counterintuitive."

"Fortunately, since your time, incredible advances have been made on that front," the Doctor told her. "Cancers are no longer treated using harsh chemicals. In fact, there are several techniques we could try, but since your cancer is of such an aggressive variety, I believe nanoprobes are our best option. And yes, it's perfectly safe," he assured her, taking note of her dubious expression. "Unlike cytotoxins, which destroy the body's cells indiscriminately, nanoprobes are programmed specifically to attack the cancerous tissue. Your immune system will still be very weak, so you'll have to receive hormone treatments for a while, to build your T-cell count back up. Is that all right with you?"

Jordan smiled in relief. "It's the best news I've heard in centuries."

"Ready, Doctor," said Moss.

"Excellent. Miss Starling — Jordan — please lie down on the bio-bed." She stretched out on the narrow bed, taking a deep, calming breath. "It won't take very long for the nanoprobes to reach the affected cells and begin attacking and destroying them. Borg nanoprobes are extremely efficient."

This was a new word to Jordan. "Borg?" she repeated, curious. "What's that?"  
  
Ensign Moss gave an awkward cough. "Do you want to field that one, Doctor, or shall I?"

The Doctor cleared his throat, looking suddenly ill at ease. "The Borg are... a species of cybernetic beings composed partly of organic tissue and partly of machinery. They operate as a collective linked to a single hive mind."

_Freaky,_ Jordan thought. "Why would anyone want to be part-machine?" she wondered aloud.  
  
"Oh, they don't have a say in the matter," Moss muttered under his breath.

"Ensign!" hissed the Doctor, glaring at his assistant.

Jordan propped herself up on her elbows. Something very weird was going on. "What does he mean by that, Doctor?" she asked in growing alarm.  
  
The Doctor sighed. "The Borg aren't exactly the friendliest species in the galaxy. They're obsessed with perfection, and in order to attain it, they... assimilate other species." He hesitated. "To put it simply, they abduct people, strip away their individuality, and turn them into drones, to serve their collective."

Jordan felt a shudder which had nothing to do with her current body temperature. The future, evidently, was not quite the utopia she'd been told it was, despite its free medicine and its technology which bordered on wizardry. "Well, that's... horrifying," she said. Then she frowned as the realization hit her. "Wait a second. You're using Borg technology to _treat_ me?" Abruptly, she sat up, fighting the familiar wave of dizziness. "What the hell, Doctor? I thought you said this was totally safe!"  
  
"It _is_ safe," the Doctor insisted. "The nanoprobes have been reprogrammed. Their ability to assimilate has been disabled."

"Golly, what a comfort," she said sourly. Though she was sitting, she felt as if a rug had been pulled out from under her. She felt tricked; betrayed, even. This was just like those damned doctors back in her own time. There was always a catch with those people. _This treatment will kill the cancer cells, but it will also destroy your immune system and turn your fingernails into parchment paper. These magical little nanoprobes will cure you, but there's a slight chance that you'll become a mindless machine_. How could she let this happen again? When would she learn to stop trusting doctors?

"If it's so safe, why didn't you tell me earlier?" she demanded. "I deserve to know exactly what sort of nightmarish little alien machines you're proposing to put inside my body."  
  
"The lady has a point, Doctor," Moss chimed in.

Ignoring him, the Doctor moved to put his hand on Jordan's shoulder, but she flinched away from his touch. "Jordan," he said patiently. "Try to understand. I am a physician. It's not just what I do; it's who I _am_. To heal is my primary function. If this treatment posed any danger to you whatsoever, I would never have recommended it to you." Jordan relaxed, though only fractionally. "Yes, Borg nanoprobes have a rather ghoulish reputation," he went on. "But in the right hands, they have proven to be very beneficial. They can repair damaged cells, rewrite unhealthy DNA, and even restore necrotized tissue. I speak from personal experience. One of my friends was dead for over eighteen hours, and Borg technology brought him back to _life._ "

Jordan felt her eyes widen at this. _Eighteen hours?_ How was that even possible?

If these nanoprobes could do that, then maybe...

"This will work," the Doctor said earnestly. "Please, trust me."

Damn her foolish optimism, damn her inability to learn from her mistakes, and damn this hologram's big, expressive brown eyes. "God help me," she whispered, dragging a hand through her short, scruffy hair. "All right. This is insane, but... all right. I trust you."

He smiled. "Thank you. Lie down on your side, please."

Before abandoning all rational thought and doing as she was told, she caught the Doctor by the sleeve of his uniform and stared up intently into his craggy, lined features. "I'm counting on you, Doctor," she told him.

He was the very embodiment of confidence. "I won't let you down," he replied.

* * *

The treatment was an enormous success, as the Doctor knew it would be. Almost the very instant he had injected the first dose of nanoprobes into Jordan Starling's spine at the base of her skull, they spread throughout the spinal meninges and the subarachnoid space, hunting down and destroying the cancer cells like the efficient little predators they were. Within minutes, many of the malignant sarcomas had been either greatly reduced in size or had disappeared completely. The Doctor could not have hoped for a better result.

Eventually, the nanoprobes would themselves be destroyed by the body's own defenses, which was why additional treatments would be necessary. The treatments had been scheduled over the next week. In the meantime, the Doctor decided it was time his patient had a change of scenery.

Leaving Ensign Moss in charge of the medical bay, he led Jordan down the corridor and to the nearest set of turbolifts. As they walked, his trained eye noticed an immediate change in her gait; her steps were not quite as wobbly and uncertain. The spinal growths that had been affecting her coordination had been almost fully eradicated. She was still very frail, of course, but that would change, once she regained her muscle mass. Soon she would be like a new woman.

They passed a young science officer, who offered a polite "Hello, Doctor" as he walked by. Jordan raised her eyebrows. "Everyone seems to know you," she remarked with some surprise.

The Doctor gave an awkward chuckle. "I suppose you could say I'm something of a celebrity," he had to admit. "I am the first and, so far, the only hologram to be made a Starfleet officer. Much less the chief medical officer of an entire space station."

"Starfleet?"

Oh, dear. There was so much that was completely new to the woman, so much that would have to be explained. Fortunately, the Doctor was never one to pass up an opportunity to expatiate. "Starfleet is an organization that is maintained by the United Federation of Planets," he said. "Its function includes scientific exploration, research, and defense, as well as maintaining peace between the planets. To date, there are over one hundred fifty planets in the Federation, and many species live right here on the station: Vulcan, Andorian, Bolian, Betazoid..."

"But no Borg, right?" Jordan asked nervously.

He smiled grimly. "No. For obvious reasons, the Borg are not part of the Federation."

They reached the turbolifts, and stepped inside. "Observation Deck Alpha," he told the computer.

The lift took off with a slight jolt, and the Doctor steadied his patient with a hand on her arm. "Why aren't there any other holograms in Starfleet?" she inquired.

He sighed. "Typically, holograms are not sentient. They're programmed to serve a specific function, and that's all they ever know. They aren't even aware that they _are_ holograms. When I was first activated, I wasn't much different. I knew I was a hologram, but I didn't consider myself to be a person. I was a piece of technology — a highly sophisticated piece of technology, but a piece of technology nonetheless. But over time, and with the help of the _Voyager_ crew, I realized that I could be more. I began pursuing my own interests, developing friendships. I became more than my programming. I became..." He smiled wryly. "A real boy."

Jordan's pale lips curved in a smile. "That's a wonderful story," she said. "I would never have believed it, if I hadn't heard it straight from the hologram's mouth." He chuckled. "Are there any others like you? Sentient holograms, I mean?"

"A few," he replied. "Actually, one of them is here on Jupiter Station. My sister, Haley."

The Doctor watched in amusement as Jordan's absurdly oversized eyes grew even larger. "You have a sister?"

"In a way," he said. "She and I had the same creator, Dr. Lewis Zimmerman. A brilliant man, but as pleasant as a hiatal hernia." She snorted a laugh. "I'll take you to meet them some time. Lewis is a handful, to put it mildly, but Haley is a gem."

The turbolift slowed to a halt, and the doors hissed open. "Are you certain you're ready?" the Doctor asked.

Jordan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she nodded. "Yes. I'm ready."

He ushered her through another set of doors, and then they were in the observation lounge on the highest deck of the uppermost port side saucer section. Scattered here and there were tables and booths, mostly empty for the present. Along one wall was a small galley and a bar, with a row of barstools. The opposite wall was a bank of massive windows, commanding a spectacular view of the planet Jupiter.

The Doctor watched as Jordan's gaze was transfixed by the sight before her. The gas giant took up most of the view outside the window, its Earth-sized Great Red Spot swirling and churning in its southern hemisphere, but one of its moons was also visible. Small shuttlecrafts zipped to and fro, arriving and departing the station. Even to the Doctor, who had lived there for over a year, it was an arresting sight.

Slowly, as if sleepwalking, Jordan approached the windows on increasingly unsteady legs. Quickly, the Doctor pulled out a chair and helped her to sit down. She seemed unable to take her eyes from the view outside. "I never," she said softly, "I never thought that... it would be so beautiful." She lifted a finger toward the moon, just at the edge of their vision. "Is that... Europa or Io?"

"Europa." For some reason, the Doctor found himself matching her hushed, almost reverent tone. "You know your Jovian satellites."

She gave a little shrug. "I did a report on them in sixth grade. I remember the names, but that's about it." Her hand was resting on the window, her long, slender fingers splayed on the glass. "I can't believe I'm here. That all this is real. It's beyond anything I could have ever imagined." Suddenly she smiled. "For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be."

It was from a poem, but the Doctor had yet to familiarize himself with many of Earth's ancient poets. "That's lovely," he said. "Who wrote it?"

For a moment it seemed Jordan had not heard him, so intent was she on the view of Jupiter. "Tennyson," she said at last. "It's from 'Locksley Hall'."

He made a mental note to look it up later. In the meantime, he was beginning to worry that he had been precipitate in exposing his patient to too much stimuli too soon in her recovery. "Are you all right?" he asked, before realizing how inane the question sounded. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive."

She put her hand on his. To his temperature-reading tactile sensors, her fingers felt abnormally cold. "It's okay," she told him. "To be honest, I don't know _how_ I am. I lost everyone and everything I ever cared about. Not only am I far from home... I don't even _have_ a home anymore. And no matter how much I wish I could go back, it's finally dawning on me that I never will."

The Doctor felt a stab of sympathy in his emotional subroutines. She was such a sweet young woman; nothing like her megalomaniacal uncle. She didn't deserve any of this — not the cancer that had stolen her health and her youth, not the devastating loss of her family, not the shock of waking up in a frightening new environment. He wished there was something more he could do. He had promised he would help her, but those words seemed so empty now. He could cure her body, but what about her soul?

"I should be devastated," she went on. "Inconsolable. But I'm not. I mean, I'm sad, but... I'm also excited. Elated, even. I'm just so glad to be _alive_. Not just alive, but soon I'll be healthy again. I can barely _remember_ being healthy." She finally tore her gaze from the viewports and smiled at him. "And it's all because of you."

Abruptly the Doctor felt a simulated lump in his throat, and cursed his creator for making him so realistic. "Oh, please," he said lightly, waving a dismissive hand. "It's... what I do."

Jordan gave a breathy laugh. "No. It's who you are." Her fingers tightened around his. "Thank you."

The Doctor was touched by her genuine appreciation. "Think nothing of it," he murmured. He cleared his throat. "Now, I believe it's time we returned to the medical bay. You'll be pleased to know that I've arranged for you to have your own private room. The decor leaves something to be desired, but it does have a rather nice view."  
  
She allowed him to pull her to her feet. "Lead the way, Doctor."

A week ago, if someone had told the Doctor that he would be strolling the port observation deck with a young woman from the twentieth century on his arm, he would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of the idea — even though it was by no means the strangest thing that had ever happened to him. And yet, despite the incongruity of the situation, he had to admit he was grateful to Seven and Chakotay for bringing Jordan Starling to him. Over the past few months, life aboard Jupiter Station had grown a bit stale and mundane. He certainly couldn't say that now.

As one of the station's few Klingon residents passed by, Jordan gasped and tightened her grip on the Doctor's arm. _Yes,_ he thought with a wry smile, _things are definitely going to be more interesting from now on._

* * *

 

There was something going on, and Harry Kim was going to find out what it was. Seven and Chakotay were staying aboard Jupiter Station, having made no announcement of their arrival beforehand. Neither had told him how long they planned on staying, or even why they were there. The last he had heard, they had both been in the middle of an archaeological expedition back on Earth. And yet here they were. Why?

The Doctor was behaving strangely, too. It was one of their customs to get together every Thursday night to practice the clarinet and piano together, but the hologram had cancelled at the last minute. Kim had asked Haley if she knew what was going on, but she had been as concerned as he was. Zimmerman seemed to know more than he let on, but was, unsurprisingly, no help whatsoever.

All day, Kim had been busy overseeing the repairs to the starboard turbolifts, but now his shift was over, and he was going to get some answers.

He was making his way to the guest quarters where Seven and Chakotay were currently staying, when he turned a corner and quite literally ran into one of the people he was trying to track down. So swift and purposeful was the former Borg drone's stride that she nearly knocked him over.

  
"Seven!" Kim exclaimed. "I've been looking all over for you. What the hell's going on?"  
  
She barely slowed in her pace. "Now is not the most convenient time for this, Harry. I have an appointment."

Undeterred, he fell into step alongside her, wondering how she walked in those heels. Though she no longer wore the close-fitting bio-suits which had helped her human skin to regrow after she had been liberated from the Collective, her shoes were still ridiculously tall. "For what?" he demanded. "You and Chakotay have been dodging my questions ever since you got here. What are you guys up to?"

An irritated look crossed her features. "We are not 'up to' anything," she replied tersely. "And that phrase vexes me with its depictive inaccuracy."

"Seven..."

She appeared to soften slightly. "I apologize. We have simply been occupied."

As they walked, Kim tried a different tack. "If there's anything wrong, you know you can tell me," he said. "I'll do whatever I can to help. That's what friends do. Get my drift?"

Seven sighed. "Yes, Harry, and you are exemplary in that regard." She cast a sidelong glance at him in her clinical Borg way, as if assessing his value as a sentient being. "You are aware of our archaeological expedition to explore beneath the ruins of Los Angeles?" she asked at last.

"Yeah, sure," he answered. It was where they were _supposed_ to be at that moment.

She hesitated before continuing. "We uncovered a subterranean laboratory belonging to Henry Starling."

" _Henry Starling?_ "  
  
"Lower your voice," she hissed at him. " _Humans._ " She shook her blonde head despairingly. "Inside the facility was a woman in cryostasis," she went on; "Starling's niece. She had been in the terminal stages of cancer, and was placed in stasis until a cure could be found. But it appears she was forgotten. Until three days ago, when the Doctor revived her, here on the station."

Kim was aware that his mouth was hanging open. "She's here? What's she like?"  
  
Seven shook her head. "The last time I saw her, she was weak, emaciated, and understandably agitated. The Doctor is currently treating her illness, but he is allowing Chakotay and myself to see her." She gave him another long, appraising look. "You _may_ accompany me, if you wish. But do not speak of this to anyone. If news of this woman's presence on this station were to spread, she would be inundated with unwanted attention."

"Of course," he agreed quickly.

Kim followed her to the medical bay, his curiosity growing by the second. Henry Starling's niece? That meant she was from the twentieth century. Did she know about Starling's timeship? Or about his involvement with _Voyager_?

His skull nearly bursting with questions, he followed Seven to one of the patient rooms. Inside, Chakotay and the Doctor were conversing with an extremely thin, pale young woman sitting up in bed. She was not more than thirty, and she had large gray eyes and a head of short, fuzzy dark hair which reminded him of one of those old brush-like devices people once used to clean their teeth. She was obviously very sick; her wrists were like twigs and her cheekbones jutted from her face. But at one time, she must have been quite pretty.

  
The Doctor turned toward him, clearly surprised by his presence. "Harry!"  
  
Chakotay looked askance at his wife. "Seven?" he inquired.  
  
Kim held up his hand. "It's all right. I've been sworn to secrecy."

The Doctor sighed. "I suppose it was only a matter of time," he muttered, shaking his head. He addressed the woman in bed. "Jordan, this is Harry Kim. He's Chief of Operations here on Jupiter Station, as well as one of my oldest friends. Harry, allow me to introduce Jordan Starling."

The woman extended her hand toward him. "Hello," she said in a low, smokey voice. "Call me Jordan."

In a bit of a daze, Kim came forward and shook her hand, feeling every joint in her knuckles. "Sure," he managed to reply. "Nice to meet you."

"Miss Starling," said Seven without preamble. "Have you improved in your metabolic functions?"

Kim watched as the woman's eyebrows climbed upward. "I... believe so, yes."

"Has she experienced any adverse reactions to the nanoprobes?" Seven asked the Doctor.

"None at all," he answered, beaming. "She's had a touch of nausea and dizziness, but those are simply lingering side effects from her chemotherapy treatments. So far she's responding very well."

Miss Starling — Jordan _—_ cleared her throat. "The Doctor tells me that you supplied the nanoprobes," she told Seven. "Thank you."

Seven smiled a rare, genuine Seven of Nine smile. "You are welcome. I am pleased they are being put to good use."

Chakotay reached into a pocket and drew out an object. "I have something for you, too," he said. In his outstretched palm was a small wooden carving of a turtle. "In my culture, turtles represent longevity and good health," he explained. "Think of it as sort of a Get Well card."

Jordan took it from him with a smile. "Thank you, it's lovely." She cast an expectant gaze on Kim. "Well, what did you get me?"

He found himself at a loss for words. "Uhhh..."

She chuckled. "Sorry, bad joke," she said, to his relief. "So what does a Chief of Operations do?"

Gradually, Kim started to get over his nerves. "I'm in charge of monitoring and maintaining the station's systems," he said. "Making sure everything runs smoothly and efficiently. Grunt work, in other words."

"When he's not forcing everyone out of Deck Eleven, Section Six with his clarinet practice," the Doctor added jokingly.

Kim smirked. "Hate to break it to you, Doc, but most people like the clarinet. Can't say the same for opera."

The Doctor cast a cutting look at him. "Shouldn't you be repairing a replicator or something?"  
  
"I can feel the love," Jordan remarked with a smile.

Chakotay shook his head in good-natured exasperation. "Seven and I have to be getting back to Earth to resume our work," he told the young woman. "We wanted to check in on you first, make sure you're all right."

"I am. I will be. I think." She winced. "I'm sorry I'm not better company right now, but I really am grateful to you both... for finding me."

He patted her arm kindly. "We'll visit again soon." He stepped back. "Don't forget to keep in touch, Doctor."

"Of course I won't forget. I have perfect recall."

Chakotay caught Kim's attention and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "See you later, Harry," he said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Take care, Chakotay."

After saying her goodbyes, Seven turned to the Doctor. "May I speak to you outside for a moment?"

"Yes, of course."

They moved into the hallway, leaving Kim alone with Jordan Starling. There was an awkward silence, which they both chose to break at the same time.

"So how do you know the Doctor?"

"So where're you from?" Kim chuckled. "Sorry."

Jordan smiled. "It's okay. I'm from Stamford, Connecticut. That's still a place, right?" He nodded, suppressing a smile. "I lived in Boston while I was going to culinary school, and then when I got sick, my whole family and I moved out to California. My uncle wanted all of us to be close, in case..." Her voice faltered, and her eyes grew moist. "Oh, boy. Here we go again."

Damn. He'd known her for less than ten minutes, and he'd already made her cry. "You don't have to talk about it," Kim said quickly. He cast about desperately for a change of topic. "Seven told me the Doc's been treating you. How's that going?"

As he had hoped, this had the desired effect. "Great. I feel better already. He's really something." She cleared her throat. "How do you know each other?"  
  
"We go way back, me and the Doc," he said. "We served together on the same starship, _Voyager_. For seven long years."

Jordan hesitated, biting her lip. "And... just to be clear, you're not a hologram, too, right?"

Kim laughed. "No, just a regular old human," he assured her.

At that moment, of course, the Doctor returned. "Don't worry, I've never held it against you," he said flippantly.

"Gee, thanks."

The hologram was holding a glass of something thick, viscous, and truly vile. "Your supplement solution," he said, offering it to the sick woman.

She took the glass and examined it warily, as if expecting its contents to attack her. "Oh, hey," she dead-panned. "Look at that. Pond scum. Just what I was craving."

Kim coughed into his hand to conceal a laugh. "Be sure to drink it all," the Doctor told her. "Your next treatment is in a few hours, and you need to keep up your strength."

She gave him a salute. "Yes, sir."

As much as Kim wanted to stay and learn more about this woman, he knew it was probably not a good time to bombard her with questions. He'd learn more from the Doctor later. "Well, I guess I'll get out of your... hair." His gaze fell on Jordan's fuzzy head and the Doctor's own unadorned scalp, and abruptly realized his mistake. "I mean... Sorry." _Idiot._ "It was nice meeting you, Jordan," he offered feebly.

She simply smiled. "You, too, Chief. Come back again and tell me more about _Voyager_."

He nodded and left the room. As he began to make his way out of the medical bay, the Doctor caught up to him. "Harry," he said in a low voice. "A word of caution. Jordan is not aware of her uncle's... temporal indiscretions."

It took a second to decipher his remark. "You're saying she doesn't know that Starling made his fortune using stolen twenty-ninth century technology?" he asked.

"Precisely. What's more, she has no idea of his involvement in _our_ history. And I'd prefer to keep it that way for the time being."

Kim looked at him, slightly taken aback. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Harry, think. In her eyes, Henry Starling was a great man — a brilliant inventor, a philanthropist, and a beloved family member. Would you want to shatter that image? Especially now, when she's already extremely emotionally fragile?"

It was hard to refute his friend's logic. "Well... no," he admitted. "No, of course not. But she _does_ deserve to know the truth. And whether you tell her, or she hears it from someone else, she's going to find out eventually."

At this a pained look stole over the Doctor's face. "I know. And I _will_ tell her. When the time is right. But until then..."

"Keep my mouth shut. Got it." The Doctor's relief was almost palpable. "I just hope you know what you're doing, Doc."

"Actually," he muttered, "I haven't the foggiest."

As Kim turned to leave, he couldn't resist teasing the hologram one more time. "You know," he remarked, "she's pretty cute."

" _Out._ "


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote all of this in a week. Wut.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. This chapter is mostly fluff, but I made up for it by... writing a lot of it? Ehh, there's some plot in there somewhere. Enjoy. (Also, apologies to Robert Picardo for poking fun at his first name. Sorry, Bob.)

The inhabitants of Deck Eleven, Section Three had grown accustomed to the sounds of opera trickling softly through the walls of their personal quarters. A few of them had lodged complaints or requested new quarters, but the rest had gradually built up a tolerance to the strains of Pavarotti, Callas, and T'Penna over the past year and a half. The music was never played at unreasonable hours, and the volume was never high enough to really disturb anyone. Some of the residents had even taken to calling it "The Doctor's Daily Dose of Culture".

Tonight's selection was "Che Gelida Manina" from Puccini's _La Boheme_. The aria was sung by the opera's hero to the heroine, a young woman in his building who had come to his shabby attic room looking for matches. After his own candle went out, they searched together for her room key, until his hand found hers in the dark. In order to enhance his listening experience, the Doctor had dimmed the lights in his own modest living space, and now sat with a look of rapture on his face.

His own quarters. They were the first he had ever had. In the early days of his existence on _Voyager_ , he never would have considered it. What possible use could an Emergency Medical Hologram have for living quarters? Once his tasks were completed, he simply deactivated himself — or was deactivated by another crew member. Anything extraneous to his main function was a waste of the ship's resources.

As he grew as an individual, however, he began to appreciate the need to have one's own private sanctuary. Unfortunately, his request for quarters had been denied; not because he was a hologram, but because space on _Voyager_ had been limited. And of course, during his sentience hearings, his program had been confined to the holodecks at Starfleet Headquarters. But as soon as he had been transferred to Jupiter Station, he had been given the quarters belonging to the former Chief Medical Officer.

They consisted of only two rooms, but they were spacious. There was a sitting area, with a sofa and chairs, a viewscreen, and a replicator for guests. The other room had originally been intended as a bedroom. Obviously the Doctor had no need of a bed, so he had converted it into a study, as well as a sort of catch-all for his many hobbies. There was a desk, a bookcase, an easel, a chess table, a set of golf clubs, and a small piano. But it was the personal touches that really made it home: the pictures he'd painted, the holo-images of his friends and family, the potted plant which had been a housewarming gift from Reg Barclay. It was more than a hologram could ask for.

The music faded, and he gave a simulated sigh of satisfaction. Though he had seen many operas and even performed in a few, _La Boheme_ would always be his favorite. In a time when operas were dominated by epic tales of gods and goddesses, kings and queens, Puccini had decided to present the public with something entirely different: a simple love story between a poet and a seamstress. Common people, going about their common lives. To some, the plot may have seemed almost too simplistic. But to the Doctor, that was what made it so appealing, so poignant. The more believable and relatable the character, the more believable and relatable were his struggles and emotions. As Puccini himself put it, there were "great sorrows in little souls".

Reluctantly, he returned the lights to their usual settings. _Back to the real world,_ he thought wryly.

"Computer," he said to the air, "create new log entry and begin recording.

"Progress report for Jordan Starling, stardate 56701.8," he began. "Today marked the seventh day since Miss Starling's arrival on Jupiter Station, and the final day of her nanoprobe injections. So far the treatments have been an unqualified success; at the time the final dose was administered, the patient's cancer cell count had been reduced by eighty-one percent. By tomorrow I predict that it will have been eradicated completely." He smiled to himself. "Already the patient's health is markedly improved. Her headaches and bouts of nausea and vertigo have lessened in frequency, her pain is diminished, and her appetite is returning. It's very encouraging; in fact, I couldn't be more pleased."

He hoped that Starfleet would forgive his personal remarks. But it was no secret that the medical community had looked on Borg nanoprobes with wariness in the past. The results of Jordan's treatments would prove without a doubt that their applications were potentially limitless.

"I'm continuing the patient on hormone treatments, until her immune system is fully restored," he continued. "After that, she will require an extensive series of inoculations. As yet, her body has only built up immunities to Earth-based pathogens; it has no defenses against alien diseases. Granted, the station's environmental systems filter out harmful pathogens for the most part, but accidents can still occur. And of course, if the patient left the station without being properly inoculated, she would be at high risk for contracting a disease that could possibly prove fatal.

"In addition, I'm prescribing a regimen involving a nutrient-rich diet and regular exercise. To that end, I plan to show Miss Starling the gymnasium, and to instruct her in the use of replicators. I'm not certain she's ready for the holodeck yet."

The Doctor smiled again, recalling the unconcealed shock and amazement Jordan had shown when he had demonstrated his ability to turn his program on and off. When he had materialized before her eyes, she had burst into applause, as if he had performed a dazzling feat of magic.

"Computer, pause recording." He wondered if he should mention his conversation with Seven of Nine, before she had left the station. She had suggested that Jordan might benefit from acquiring a "collective"; in other words, a social circle of her own. She was quite correct, of course. Seven herself had not really begun to flourish on _Voyager_ until she started associating and building friendships with the crew. But the Doctor was hesitant to force Jordan into socializing before she was ready. Her recovery was something that could not be rushed. Though perhaps she would enjoy meeting Haley.

"Computer, resume recording," he said. "I've also decided it's time for her to have her own quarters. Her health is stable enough for her to be released from close medical supervision. And I believe it would help her to feel more at home." _At least,_ he thought, _I hope so._ "End log."

The next day was technically the Doctor's day off, but the following morning nevertheless saw him making his way to the medical bay, six decks up. He had a full day of activities planned for his patient, and he wanted to get started as soon as possible.

He was surprised on approaching Jordan Starling's room to find she was not alone. His assistant had pulled up a chair beside her bed, while she sat propped up against multiple pillows. She was reading aloud from her battered old paperback book, and Ensign Moss was laughing harder than the Doctor had ever seen him laugh before. Curious, he lingered in the doorway.

"'One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about human beings,'" she read, "'was their habit of continually stating and repeating the obvious, as in _It's a nice day,_ or _You're very tall,_ or _Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right?_ __ _'_ "

"Stop," Moss wheezed. "Stop. For God's sake, I can't breathe."

"I haven't even gotten to the good part," she protested. "'At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behavior. If human beings don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up. After a few months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one. If they don't keep on exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working.'"

The Doctor couldn't help but snort in amusement, causing Jordan to look up from her book. "Doctor," she greeted with a smile, "Good morning."

"Good morning," he replied, entering the room. "You two seem to be enjoying yourselves."

She gave a sheepish chuckle. "Well, I thought Simon here might appreciate a spot of dry British humor."

"And I have, but I absolutely must be getting back to work," said Moss, rising to his feet. He left, nodding briefly at the Doctor as he passed.

"Bye, Simon." Jordan set the book on the little table beside her bed. "How are you, Doctor?"

"I should be asking the same of you. You're looking very well." It was true; there was a tint of color in her cheeks, and although there were still dark, tired smudges beneath her eyes, there was also a liveliness in their stormy gray depths that had been missing before.

"I feel... amazing," she said, shaking her head as if reluctant to believe her own words. "I haven't felt this good in years."

The Doctor smiled. "I'm glad." He opened his medical tricorder and began scanning her. His smile widened. "I'm not detecting any traces of the malignant cells," he told her. "Congratulations, Jordan. You are officially cancer-free."

The young woman's eyes grew impossibly large, and she seemed to stop breathing altogether. "Are... A-are you serious?" she stammered at last. He nodded, unable to suppress a triumphant smile. To his surprise, Jordan threw back her covers and climbed out of bed, rushing forward and hugging him tightly. "Oh, Doctor!" she exclaimed, squeezing him with a strength that he wouldn't have guessed she possessed. "I don't know what to say! Thank you so much!"

He awkwardly attempted to return her embrace, patting her back lightly, tricorder still in hand. "You are most welcome," he said, setting the device carefully aside. "But remember, you're still far from healthy."

As if to confirm his statement, her legs began to buckle, and he had to catch her before they gave out. "You'll need to come here regularly for follow-up hormone treatments," he told her sternly, helping her to sit on the edge of the bed, "as well several inoculations."

She nodded, quickly dashing a few tears from her cheeks. "I know," she said. "I don't mind. That just means I'll get to see you again."

This was somewhat unexpected. For some reason the Doctor had assumed that she had already had enough of physicians to last her an entire lifetime. It had not occurred to him that she actually might enjoy his company in a non-medical capacity. "Of course," he managed to reply, trying to keep his tone light. "I would hope that our association wouldn't end just because you have no more need of my services."

"Not a chance," she said with a smile. "You're the nicest hologram I know."

The Doctor felt his blushing algorithms kick in, much to his annoyance. Jordan didn't seem to notice. "You know, Doctor," she was saying, "I've been thinking. I feel like such a mooch here."

The term was an unfamiliar one. "A mooch?" he repeated.

She attempted to clarify. "Sorry. That is to say, someone who takes advantage of the charity and goodwill of others, and gives nothing in return."

Immediately the Doctor began to protest. "Jordan, don't be silly. I told you, there's no need to—"

"Up-bup-bup." She wagged a finger at him. "I know what you said. I'd still like to make myself useful. And since I'm feeling so much better, I was wondering..." She chewed her lower lip, before fixing him with a hopeful look. "Does the station need another chef?"

Again the Doctor was taken slightly aback. Of course, she was a chef. She was no doubt eager to put her training to use. He himself did not know much about cooking, but he was aware that the station's head cook, Reiya Meraab, was a Bolian. However, most Bolian food was not compatible with the human digestive system. And if the complaints he had heard from Harry Kim and many of the other human residents were any indication, Reiya's knowledge of human cuisine left something to be desired. The other restaurants on the station did not serve human food at all.

It was an interesting idea. It would aid in Jordan's recovery, as well as help better acquaint her with the station and its inhabitants. "I don't see why not," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Why don't we talk to Commander Bhat about finding you a place in the galley?"

Upon seeing the expression of unbridled joy that lit up her pale face, he knew it was the right decision. "That would be wonderful, Doctor," she said sincerely, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. She was certainly a demonstrative little human, he remarked to himself. "So now what?"  
  
"Ah, yes." The Doctor was only partially successful in smothering an indulgent smirk. "Today is my day off. And since neither of us have any demands on our time, I've arranged a date for you." As his patient blinked up owlishly at him in confusion, his smirk grew. "With the hairdresser."

Jordan stared blankly. "I have a what with the who now?"

* * *

It didn't seem possible. Enormous space stations in orbit around Jupiter, sure. Walking, talking, singing projections, why not? Food and drinks that materialized out of thin air, _yes_ please. But the technology to regrow hair in an instant? Well, that was just too much. Hair simply didn't grow at supernatural speed. Nope. Sorry.

And yet that was precisely what the Doctor had just told Jordan. What was more, he was acting like the idea was not in the least bit insane. On the contrary, as they made their way to the hair salon or whatever its twenty-fourth century equivalent was, he answered her many questions with a breezy insouciance which only served to frustrate her. It didn't take her long to realize he was _enjoying_ her bemusement and disbelief. As much as she liked the hologram, he sure was one smug little stinker.

Still, it was not as if she could be annoyed with him. He had given her her health, her very _life_ back. She owed him everything. If he wanted to tease her a bit, then she was more than happy to let him do so.

The hairdresser with which he had made the appointment, he told her conversationally as they walked, was a member of a species called the Trill. They were an unusual race in that a select few of them were chosen to host sentient, slug-like organisms called symbionts in their bodies. When the host Trill died, the symbiont was transferred to a new body, storing the memories, skills, and even the personalities of each previous host. It was thought that the symbionts themselves could live for hundreds of years.

The hairdresser introduced herself as Prua. She was a pretty woman with a set of leopard-like spots running down both sides of her face, starting at her temples and disappearing beneath the collar of her figure-hugging dress. In her own shapeless hospital-issue clothes, Jordan felt decidedly unglamorous by comparison.

"So," Prua said cheerily, after pleasantries had been exchanged, "do you have any ideas about what you'd like?"  
  
She was still reeling slightly from the entire concept. "Not really," she admitted. "My hair hasn't been a priority for a while now." It would have been more accurate to say that she had given up on her hair a long time ago. Every time it would start to grow to a length she actually liked, a new round of chemo treatments would cause it to fall out again. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Hmm." The woman tapped her lip contemplatively. "I may have a few ideas. Come with me, Miss Starling."

Jordan turned to the Doctor, who nodded encouragingly, assuring her that he would remain in the waiting area. She followed Prua back to another room, where she was shown into a chair. Around her were a number of strange-looking devices, the various purposes of which she could not begin to guess.

For a long moment the Trill simply stared at her intently, as if trying to peer into her very soul. Jordan shifted uncomfortably in the chair, wondering if the Doctor hadn't made an error of judgment in trusting her with this woman.

Finally she stepped back. "May I be candid with you?" she asked. Jordan nodded cautiously. "I've been doing this for a long time, and I've gotten pretty good at reading people. I can tell you've endured a lot of sadness and heartache. You're grieving for something, or someone. You want to let go and be happy again, but you don't know how. Am I right?"

Jordan swallowed, unprepared for the sudden rush of emotions that overtook her. "You're not wrong," she said huskily, her vision blurring.

Prua gave a decisive nod. "I think the first step in moving on is to embrace change. And the best way to do that is by doing something crazy." Her lips stretched in a wide, rather unsettlingly alien grin. "Are you ready to do something crazy?"

Her heart pounding, her hands twisting in her lap, Jordan wasn't sure how to answer. Could she handle another shock, without short-circuiting her brain? Then again, it was only hair. If she didn't like it, she could just change it again. "Why the hell not?" she heard herself say. "Sure, let's do it."

The Trill quickly set to work with practiced efficiency. Picking up something she called a "follicle stimulator", she passed it over Jordan's head in smooth motions, working systemmatically, front to back, left to right. To her amazement, Jordan could actually _feel_ her hair growing, until it fell to her shoulders. _Witchcraft,_ she thought with a thrill.

She shook her head back and forth, feeling the weight of her new brunette locks. "Oh, my God," she blurted. "I have hair! This is bananas!"

Prua laughed in delight. "Have you really never grown your hair with a follicle stimulator before?"

Jordan remembered the Doctor's admonition not to let too many people know of her status as a temporal fish out of water. If word were to spread through the station, she would never know privacy again. "I, uh... I grew up in a technologically-challenged household," she explained lamely. A stupid grin spread over her face as she reached up and ran her finger through the cool tresses. "I'd forgotten how good it felt," she said with a sigh.

"It's a lovely color," Prua remarked. "Now say goodbye to it."

Jordan looked up at her in alarm. "What, already?"

"I know what I'm doing," the woman said firmly. "You're going to love it."

She gazed wistfully in the mirror at her magical, miraculous hair. _Frig it,_ she thought. "All right. Do with me what you will."

* * *

While he waited for Jordan Starling, the Doctor idly examined his surroundings. The walls of the waiting room were covered with pictures of attractive men and women of various species, all displaying the latest hair trends. He couldn't help but notice that none of the models were bald.

He quirked a small, self-deprecating smile. There had been a time when he had been quite self-conscious of the vast barren wasteland that was his own scalp. Of all the faces Lewis Zimmerman could have based his physical parameters on, he'd just _had_ to use his own scowling visage — furrowed brow, crows' feet, receded hairline and all. More than once, he had considered altering his appearance; especially after Seven of Nine had once pointed out to him in her usual, soul-crushingly honest way that unlike organic beings, he was not fettered to his physical form, and therefore there was no reason to retain the features of a middle-aged bald man. Technically, he could have chosen to look like anyone he wanted.

Somehow, though, the idea of changing his appearance seemed like a betrayal to his creator. Zimmerman had been so proud of the EMH Mark I that he had given it his own face, imperfect though it was. The fact that the Doctor was the only Mark I in the whole galaxy who was still doing what he had been originally designed to do made it even more poignant. It wasn't a bad face, really; he still had intelligent, compassionate eyes and a firm, strong jaw. It could be worse. He could be modeled after a Nausicaan.

Besides, hair was overrated. If such distinguished Starfleet personages as Jean-Luc Picard and Benjamin Sisko could get by without it, then certainly he could manage just fine.

To pass the time, the Doctor drew out a PADD onto which he had downloaded the works of Tennyson and began to read "Locksley Hall", the poem from which Jordan had quoted. The man had been a gifted writer, he decided, with a special talent for vivid imagery. He especially liked the way he compared Pleiades to "a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid". Pleiades held a special significance for him, because it was one of the star formations he had pointed out to Denara in Tom Paris's holodeck program.

Denara Pel. His first love. The Doctor had never actually intended to fall in love; in fact, he wouldn't have guessed it was _possible_ for him to fall in love. But Denara had made it easy. Parting with her, however, had been one of the most agonizing experiences of his short existence. It had been a long time before he could review his memory files of her with more fondness than sadness. Even now, he wondered what had become of her. The last he had heard, the Vidiian phage, the plague that had ravaged her people and caused them to resort to barbaric practices just to survive, had been cured. He hoped she was well.

The poem itself dwelled on the subject of unrequited love. Inevitably, the Doctor's thoughts drifted to Seven of Nine. She had been the Galatea to his Pygmalion. She had arrived on _Voyager_ with no concept of individuality, and he had taught her to value herself as a person. He had given her social lessons, shown her how to develop her own interests. He had watched his creation blossom into a strong, brilliant, beautiful woman. And fallen head-over-heels for her in the process.

Somewhere, deep in his figurative heart, he had always known it was never meant to be. As extraordinarily brave, intelligent, fiercely loyal, and even compassionate as Seven was, she was also reserved, austere, coldly logical, and a born skeptic. She scorned frivolity, disapproved of indulgences, and deemed most forms of art as "irrelevant". In contrast, the Doctor was a firm believer of living life to the fullest. He adored art and music and culture, and if he had not been a hologram, he would have no doubt been an epicurean, as well. As much as it had pained him to admit at first, even if Seven had returned his feelings, they would not have been compatible. Chakotay, on the other hand, with his calm, patient, easy-going nature, had proven a surprisingly good match for her.

As for the Doctor, he had been on a few dates since _Voyager_ 's return to the Alpha quadrant. But those women had seemed more interested in his celebrity status than in him personally. To them he had been a novelty, not a person with feelings and opinions. After a while it had become disheartening. He had not given up looking for someone to share his life, by any means. For the time being, however, he was content to devote himself to his friends and his work.

He finished "Locksley Hall", and was just about to begin "The Lady of Shalott", when the door connecting the waiting room to the back of the salon hissed open, and Jordan stepped through. Curious, he looked up.

She chewed her lip nervously. "Well?" she prompted. "What do you think?"

Slowly, the Doctor set his PADD aside and rose to his feet. She was nearly unrecognizable. For some reason he had assumed she would want her hair to be long, but instead it fell to just above her shoulders in soft waves. At first glance it appeared to be a dark mahogany color, but as he looked more closely, he saw that there were barely perceptible streaks of iridescent blues, greens, purples, and golds woven through it, which almost seemed to shift as she moved. The effect was subtle, but mesmerizing.

"Isn't it wild?" she said, tousling it with her fingers. "I never would have dreamed of doing anything like this before, but I figured, why not? You only live once. Or," she added with a roll of her eyes, "in my case, twice."

She cleared her throat expectantly, and abruptly the Doctor realized he had yet to say anything. "Do you like it? Or is it too bizarre?"

"It's stunning," he said with all sincerity.

Jordan grinned and turned back to the hairdresser, giving her a thumbs-up gesture with both hands. "Oh, wait," she said, cringing and putting her hands down quickly. "That's not an offensive gesture on Trill, is it? God, I swear I'll get the hang of this 'tact' thing someday."

The Doctor smiled.

* * *

Jordan couldn't seem to stop fussing with her new hair. Her fingers were repeatedly drawn to it, as if by a magnetic attraction. And she kept stealing glances at her reflection every time she passed one of the gleaming, mirror-like control panels on the station's walls. The shifting colors reminded her soap bubbles, or of the aurora lights on Earth. She absolutely loved it.

She was also slightly ashamed that she was almost as ecstatic about her hair as she had been to learn that her cancer was gone. Hair, after all, was not essential to life. From what she had seen, some alien species didn't have any hair at all. She should have been happy simply to be alive.

But _God_ , she had missed her hair.

After leaving the salon, the Doctor had taken her to meet with Jupiter Station's commanding officer, Akshara Bhat. She was an extremely poised, dignified older woman of Indian heritage, whose perfect posture and diction were rather intimidating at first. But she had been very kind, and assured Jordan that she would speak to the station's head cook about finding her a part-time position in the galley. Although it was difficult to read the impassive commander, she had almost seemed excited when Jordan told her she knew how to prepare a few Indian dishes. Later, the Doctor had promised, he would show her to her new living quarters.

Now she and the Doctor were on their way to the holography lab, where the man who had created his program lived and worked. Jordan was looking forward to meeting him, as well as the hologram to whom the Doctor referred as his "sister". However, she had never seen this much of the station at once, and she was unused to so much physical exertion. Between it and the excitement of the day, she was beginning to feel light-headed.

In the turbolift, she was obliged to lean against the wall to catch her breath. The Doctor immediately noticed her fatigue, and a look of contrition crossed his features. "I'm sorry, Jordan," he said. "I should have known all this would be too much for you. Let me take you to your quarters. We can visit Lewis and Haley another day."

Jordan shook her head, then quickly regretted doing so when she saw stars in her peripheral version. In truth, she was done in. But the Doctor had seemed so eager to introduce her to his odd little family. After all he had done for her, she couldn't let him down.

"I'm just a little tired," she assured him. "I'll be all right in a minute."

"Nonsense. I won't have my patient succumbing to exhaustion on my watch. Computer, halt turbolift."

The machine whirred to a stop, to Jordan's annoyance. "Computer, _un_ -halt turbolift," she said, not particularly surprised when it failed to obey her. She glared up at the Doctor, who simply glared right back. "I told you, I'm fine. I just need to rest, which I assume I'll be able to do once we get to this holography lab. I won't be expected to spin plates or run any marathons, will I?"

"Well, obviously not," he replied, rather huffily. "I'm simply concerned, that's all. I wouldn't want to subject you to anything which might delay your recovery."

Good Lord, he was stubborn. "And I am certain you won't," she said firmly. "It's just a leisurely visit with your family, Doctor. If I start to feel the slightest bit unwell, I will let you know right away. Deal?"

His frown lines softened slightly. Seeing a possible point of attack, she gave him her most beseeching look, and he sighed in defeat. "All right. Deal." He ordered the turbolift to resume. "But I expect you to keep your word," he grumbled.

Jordan had to bite her lip to stifle a smile. "But of course, Doctor."

They arrived somewhere in the upper decks of the port side of the station, and the Doctor led her down a long, curving corridor. At last they stopped at a door that seemed indistinguishable from every other door she had seen, and he pressed a button on the wall.

After a moment, she heard a female voice from within. "Come in."

They came through, and Jordan found herself in a small apartment. It was very spartan in its design, with gray walls and gleaming glass and metal furniture. And yet it was also clearly lived-in; shelved lined the walls, cluttered with knicknacks, and a few pieces of art hung here and there, seemingly at random. Behind a desk sat a slender, pretty young woman with short honey-blonde hair. At their entrance, she rose with a smile.

"Hello, Doctor," she said in a soft, slightly husky voice. "You haven't been by in a while."

Jordan cleared her throat. "I'm afraid that's probably my fault," she said lamely.

The woman turned her smile on her. "You must be Jordan," she said, coming forward and extending a hand. "The Doctor has told me all about you. I'm Haley, Dr. Zimmerman's assistant."

"And the Doctor's sister." Jordan shook her hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise." She gestured over her shoulder toward a door at the end of a hall. "Lewis is working on a new project for Starfleet at the moment, but I'm sure he won't mind taking a break. This way."

She ushered them into a large laboratory, even more cluttered than the living area. Jordan looked around in fascination, taking in the bizarre equipment, the abstract sculptures, the tall shelves crammed with books and unidentifiable paraphrenalia. One area of the lab was different from the rest, with a strange metal infrastructure.

In the middle of the room was a round work station, where a man in a lab coat sat hunched over a control panel. As Jordan's gaze fell on him, she did a double-take. He looked exactly like the Doctor, albeit an older version. The lines around his eyes and mouth were heavier, and his hair was gray instead of dark brown, and slightly long and unkempt. In fact, his overall air was rather wild and disheveled, like he'd been caught in a windstorm. Other than that, his resemblance to his creation was identical.

"Haley," he said in a voice uncannily like the Doctor's, "I thought I told you I didn't want to be disturbed."

"And you thought I'd listen to you?" she said, her voice lightly teasing.

He glanced up at her, a reply on his lips, but on seeing his visitors, it was promptly forgotten. "Oh," he muttered.

The Doctor smirked. "Miss me?"

"How can I miss you, when you won't go away?" he retorted. The hologram simply rolled his eyes. The man turned his gaze on Jordan and swiveled in his chair to face her. "Who's this?" he asked bluntly.

"Ah, yes." The Doctor urged her forward, his hand on the small of her back. "This is Jordan Starling, the young woman I was telling you about. Jordan, this is Dr. Lewis Zimmerman."

"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. Either Zimmerman didn't notice, or he chose not to acknowledge it. For a long moment he examined her in a clinical manner which made her more than a little uncomfortable.

"So," he said at last. "You're the freezer girl."

 _And you're Miracle Max from_ The Princess Bride _,_ she thought. The Doctor appeared mortified by his creator's tactlessness, but Jordan was too surprised by the remark to even be offended. "That's... a stunningly accurate description," she replied.

"I hope you're not expecting me to feed you," he went on, returning to his work. "I don't entertain a lot of 'real' people." The Doctor cleared his throat loudly. "You know what I mean. _Organic._ "

Haley merely shook her head. "Ignore him, Jordan," she said. "The rest of us do. Can I get you anything? Some tea and sandwiches?"

Jordan smiled at the blonde. "That would be great, thanks."

She left the lab, and returned very shortly with a cup of steaming tea and a plate of sandwich triangles. "The Doctor tells us you're from the twentieth century," she said as she cleared a place on a nearby sofa for Jordan to sit. "All this must be very strange for you."

Jordan sank into the couch, gratefully accepting the proffered refreshments. "Actually, I think I'm getting the hang of it here," she answered. "I managed to use the sonic shower this morning, and I didn't even electrocute myself."

"She's being modest," the Doctor told Haley, with his peculiar turned-down smile. "She's adjusting to life on the station quite nicely. In fact, she may possibly be starting on as an assistant chef in the galley soon."

Dr. Zimmerman's eyebrows rose. "A chef, huh? Good." Jordan decided that on further consideration, his voice was not _exactly_ like the Doctor's. While his was dry and somewhat flat in its timbre, the Doctor's tones were warmer, more musical. "Maybe you can give Haley a few pointers," he said. "Tell her that lettuce is for iguanas, not people."

As he spoke, he jerked his head in direction of his desk. For the first time, Jordan noticed a large, jewel-green lizard sprawled across it, its long whip-like tail dangling listlessly over the edge like a Salvador Dali painting. "He's beautiful," she observed, sipping her tea.

"You like Leonard?" asked Zimmerman. "He's a hologram."

"Really?" Somehow, in this madhouse, she wasn't surprised.

"A lot of people here have holographic pets," Haley told Jordan. "No risk of allergies, and you don't have to feed or clean up after them."

 _Ingenious,_ she thought. "That's my kind of pet. I had fish, back in the twentieth century." At the thought of them, her heart suddenly plummeted to her stomach. "I guess they're all dead now."

"My, she's a cheery one," Zimmerman remarked. The Doctor elbowed him sharply. "Ow."

Jordan watched the two of them beside each other. Their relationship was certainly unusual, she thought; it seemed to be built on mutual exasperation, annoyance, and grudging tolerance. Not unlike a real family, she supposed. But something was bothering her.

"May I ask you a question, Dr. Zimmerman?" she inquired.  
  
"You just did," he replied. She simply waited silently. Finally the man sighed. "What is it?"

"You created both Haley and the Doctor, right?" He raised his eyebrows, as if to say, _Duh._ "So why is it that she has a name, but he doesn't?"  
  
The Doctor looked at her, seemingly surprised by her question. Zimmerman simply shrugged. "Haley is one of a kind. She's one of the first holograms I ever created, and I designed her specifically to be my assistant. Starfleet, on the other hand, commissioned me to create six hundred and seventy-eight EMH Mark Is. Obviously I couldn't be expected to give them all names." He snorted. "Besides, they were never meant to be anything more than diagnostic tools. It's not my fault _this one_ decided to become the master of his own destiny."

Jordan watched as the Doctor rolled his eyes. "You could still give him a name, though, right?" she pressed. "It's not too late."

At this the Doctor's expressive face contorted into a wince. "I don't think that's a good idea," he told her.

Zimmerman turned his chair toward the hologram, a sudden mischievous glint in his eye. "You want a name? All right." He stroked his chin contemplatively. "Bob," he decided.

" _Bob?_ " the Doctor repeated in disbelief.

"Sure. Bob." The scientist seemed eminently pleased with his choice. "I dub thee Doctor Bob."

The Doctor's look of disdain was worthy of immortalizing on canvas. "That's the worst name I've ever heard," he said indignantly.

"What do you want from me?"

"Oh, perhaps more than a millisecond's thought before blurting out the first name that popped into that addled brain of yours!"

" _Addled?_ Who was it that created your program, you ungrateful heap of photons?"

"What have I done?" Jordan whispered into her teacup.  
  
Haley shook her head dismissively. "Don't worry, they're always like this."

 _Outstanding,_ she thought.

Mercifully, they soon forgot all about their squabble, and Zimmerman showed the Doctor some of his latest projects, while Jordan and Haley chatted. She was a sweet woman, with the patience of a saint. At last Jordan could no longer conceal her fatigue; it was a struggle simply to keep her eyes open. She whispered in the Doctor's ear, and he nodded and announced their intention to leave.

"It was wonderful to meet you," Haley told her as they moved toward the door. "Please come again."

"Of course," agreed Jordan. "That is, if it's all right with Dr. Zimmerman."

He gave an uncaring shrug. "Fine, whatever." He shot her a sidelong glance. "Do you make blueberry pie?" he asked with a faint air of hope.

Jordan smiled. "I'll see what I can do."

They said their goodbyes and left the laboratory, Jordan moving slowly on shuffling feet. After a while she accepted the Doctor's offer to hold on to his arm for support. As he led her through the space station, she quickly lost track of where they were. By the time they arrived at her new quarters, she was hopelessly lost. However, the Doctor assured her that it was just six decks away from the medical bay.

She was not sure what to expect. But when she stepped inside, she was pleasantly surprised. The quarters were modest, but the space was well utilized. The living area had a small table and two chairs, a couch built into the far wall beneath a large window, and a little galley.

She moved into the next room, which contained a bed, a closet, and an adjoining bathroom.

"All this is mine?" she asked in quiet amazement.

The Doctor simply nodded. "Oh, and I replicated a few sets of clothing for you." He opened the closet, revealing half a dozen outfits on hangers. He must have known that Jordan would have no grasp of twenty-fourth century fashion, because each ensemble was separated by divider rings. The thoughtful gesture brought an unexpected lump to her throat.

"Haley helped a little," he said, unaware of her sudden emotion. "Her fashion sense is far superior to my own. I hope they're to your liking."

"I'm sure they will be," she managed to answer.

She followed him out of the bedroom, and he showed her how to use the various devices, like the replicator, the viewscreen, and the personal desktop monitor, which she could use to access the computer database. "Most of the crew quarters aren't equipped with galleys," he told her, "but I thought you might like to have a kitchen of your own, to facilitate your cooking obsession."

Jordan detected the good-natured jest in his tone. "Don't tease," she chided. "Cooking is everything. It's self-expression. It's art and science combined. It's..." She smiled. "It's love made edible."

The Doctor gave a wistful sigh. "So I've been told," he replied. "Unfortunately, I don't have a stomach, so I can only enjoy food vicariously through others."

She turned to him sharply, realizing her mistake. Of course, he was a hologram. People made of light and magnetic containment fields couldn't eat food. "God, I did it again, didn't I? I'm sorry, Doctor. You must think I'm a real jerk."

"Not at all," he said lightly. "It's nice to hear you speaking with such passion." His voice became softer. "I can only imagine how difficult this past week has been for you."

Jordan looked away, unable to handle the sympathy in his eyes. "It hasn't been easy," she admitted quietly, her gaze fixed on the view outside the window. "But I suspect it would have been a lot harder, if I hadn't met you." Her throat grew unpleasantly tight, but she wasn't finished. "You're such a good person. And don't tell me you're just doing your job, because that's not it. You didn't have to take me to get my hair done, or introduce me to your family, or... or give me my own kitchen. You've really gone above and beyond for me, Doctor. I want you to know how much I appreciate it."

When she was finally able to turn back to him, he was standing very still. She saw his jaw tighten several times, and she began to fear she'd made him uncomfortable. "Well," he said carefully, "I did promise I would do anything I could to help your transition into this century." He cleared his throat. "I... hope it's enough."

She experienced a rush of fondness for the hologram. "It is," she assured him.

He smiled. "And now you must get some rest. Doctor's orders." She walked with him to the door, where he paused a moment. "If you need me for any reason, my quarters are just down the hall. Room 332."

"Oh, we're neighbors?" This pleased Jordan to an inordinate degree. "Awesome."

"Awesome, indeed," he said with a chuckle. "Good night, Jordan."

She felt an overwhelming urge to hug him, but managed to quash it. "Good night, Doctor."

He took his leave, and Jordan suddenly felt very alone.

She shuffled to her bedroom and looked at her new clothing. It was really quite beautiful; her favorite outfit was a one-sleeved peacock green tunic dress, paired with dark gray leggings. In the bottom of the closet was a set of drawers. Curious, she knelt on the floor and began pulling them open, and found her personal effects inside: her copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide_ , her journal, and the little turtle carving that Chakotay had given her. Beside them, neatly folded, were her old clothes. Her faded red, pill-covered cardigan lay on top.

Slowly, mechanically, Jordan lifted it out. She remembered the day she had gotten it. It was during a spontaneous road trip to Monterey, California with her boyfriend Dean. It had been colder than they'd both anticipated, and he insisted on getting her something to keep her warm. After wandering around, they had stumbled on a garage sale, where Dean picked out the ugly, zippered cardigan because it reminded him of Mister Rogers. He had whistled "It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood" for the rest of the day, despite her repeated threats to kill him.

The ratty old cardigan swam before Jordan's eyes. As she sat on the floor, she held it to her chest and began to weep softly.

 


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord, I'm on a roll. This never happens to me. My sincere thanks to everyone following this story. Let's get right to it.

Jordan spent a fitful first night in her new quarters, her sleep sporadic and plagued by troubled dreams. In her unconscious mind, she was back home, in the twentieth century, and cured of the cancer which had dogged her for half of her adult life. She was eager to share the good news with her loved ones. The only problem was, none of them seemed know who she was. With growing panic and desperation, she tried and tried to help her father recall his youngest daughter, to remind her sister of the years they spent growing up together, to get her boyfriend to remember how they first met. But no matter what she said, they kept repeatedly insisting that she couldn't be Jordan Starling, because Jordan Starling was dead.

The sound of the door chime jolted her awake. Her panic escalated when she found herself unable to move. Cursing in her head, she pushed through the paralyzing fear and forced herself to wiggle her fingers and toes. After a moment, sensation returned, and she managed to roll herself out of bed and into a heap on the floor.

Wincing, she stood up slowly, rubbing her back. As she staggered out of her bedroom, the chime sounded again, grating on her frayed nerves. By the time she reached the door, she was fully prepared to murder whoever was on the other side.

The door opened, and she was greeted by the sight of a tall, slim, bright blue woman standing in the corridor. She was completely bald, with elongated earlobes, purple tiger-like stripes on her scalp, and a vertical ridge bifurcating her face from the crown of her head to the collar of her form-fitting gray dress.

"Jordan Starling?" she asked expectantly.

At this point she wasn't sure herself. "Yes...?"

The woman broke into a blinding smile. "It's so nice to meet you! I'm your new boss!"

Jordan blinked, wondering if she was still dreaming. "What time is it?" she croaked.

"0500 hours," the woman replied. "But I knew you'd want to get started right away. We have a lot to do before the morning rush, and I'll need to show you around the galley first."

She was more cheerful than a sentient being had any right to be at such an early hour, and she seemed to be impervious to the death glare currently trained on her. Finally Jordan simply gave up. "All right," she said wearily. "Let me get dressed."

"No problem! I can wait!" Jordan made a noncommittal noise and stepped back inside. To her consternation, the blue woman followed her, maintaining a running monologue the entire time. "Ooh, nice quarters," she said admiringly as Jordan went into her bedroom to change. "You have your own kitchen? How'd you manage that? All I have is a replicator, and I can barely get it to make a glass of water."

Opening her wardrobe, Jordan quickly threw on the first outfit she saw: a long tunic with cutout sleeves and black leggings. At the bottom of her closet, she found a pair of tall white boots with wedge heels. _Oh, Doctor,_ she thought, _you are heaven-sent._

As she pulled them on, the woman continued chattering away in the next room. "So the commander told me you were in cryostasis for four hundred years! That's unbelievable! I'm surprised that humans had the technology to do that back then. You guys hadn't even invented the warp drive yet."

Jordan went into the adjoining bathroom, found what appeared to be a brush, and dragged it hurriedly through her new mop of kaleidoscopic hair. Making a mental note to hunt down some makeup to hide the tired circles under her eyes, she decided she was as ready as she would ever be.

"I like your hair," the woman remarked as she returned to the living area. "Looks like Prua's work. She specializes in those crazy colors." She clapped her hands, startling Jordan slightly. "This is so exciting! I've been needing an extra pair of hands in the galley for a while now. I can't wait. Are you ready?"

Jordan tried and failed to suppress a jaw-popping yawn. "What did you say your name was?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry! I guess I neglected to introduce myself." She stuck out a hand, visibly pleased to have remembered the human custom. "I'm Reiya. Reiya Meraab."

Jordan couldn't help but smile as she shook the slender blue hand. "A pleasure," she said, unable to stay grumpy in the face of such genuine good cheer.

Reiya turned to the door, then paused. "Wait, I have something for you! A gift from the commander." Reaching into a hidden pocket in her dress, she pulled out a little gold and silver badge in the shape of the Starfleet insignia, identical to the ones worn by nearly everyone she had met. She pinned it on Jordan's tunic and stepped back. "It's called a comm badge. Now you can contact anyone on the station, and they can contact you."

"So that's what they're for," she murmured.

But Reiya Meraab was already out the door. "All right, let's go!" she called over her shoulder.

 _Before coffee?_ thought Jordan, struggling to keep up. The woman's legs were insanely long. As they walked, she found herself wondering what species she was, but was unsure how to ask. "Sorry, I'm not familiar with all the, um... the members of the Federation yet. What...?"

"What am I?" Reiya laughed. "I'm a Bolian. I'm from Bolarus Nine. Not far from the Romulan Neutral Zone." At this she scrunched up her face in distaste, though Jordan had no idea why. "It's a beautiful little blue planet, mostly oceans, and lush green islands. I bet you're wondering how I ended up here." Jordan opened her mouth to reply, but she just kept on talking. "I always wanted to be in Starfleet, but I have no head for memorizing regulations and military tactics and strategies. I dropped out of the Academy after a year. But I still loved Starfleet, and I knew I wanted to be involved in it in some capacity. And I always loved cooking. So I enrolled in culinary school, and got a job in the cafeteria at Starfleet Headquarters on Earth. I eventually worked my way up, and now I'm here, so... never give up!" She looked down at Jordan, significantly shorter even in her boots. "What about you? How did you become a chef?"

Jordan thought for a moment. "When I was a kid," she said slowly, "my mom got me this thing called an Easy-Bake Oven. It was a little pink toy oven, but it actually worked. It made these tiny cakes that tasted like sawdust." She chuckled at the memory. "But it made me want to start cooking real food. I started leafing through all of my mom's cookbooks, and coming up with my own recipes. By the time I was ten, I was preparing most of the family meals." She smiled. "There was never any question of what I was going to be when I grew up. I was always going to cook."

"You'll have to share some of your specialty dishes with me," said Reiya. Without warning, she elbowed Jordan in the side. "Ooh. Speaking of dishes."

Following her gaze, Jordan noticed a handsome, clean-cut man in his thirties walking down the corridor toward them. She quickly recognized him as the station's Chief of Operations, Harry Kim. "I know him," she said. "Sort of. He's friends with the Doctor." As he grew closer, she gave him a little wave. "Good morning, Chief."

"Good morning," he returned with a polite nod. Then he stopped in his tracks, confusion written on his face. "Sorry, have we met?"

Jordan folded her arms over her chest, pretending to be put out. "Don't tell me you've forgotten me already," she said accusingly.

Kim's dark eyebrows drew together as he looked at her more closely. "What... Jordan?" She nodded. "Wow! I didn't recognize you, with the..." He gestured vaguely to her hair, making her chuckle. "It looks nice."

"Thanks," she said with a smile.

"So how'd you get mixed up with this culinary catastrophe?" he asked, pointing with his thumb to Reiya, who gave him an affronted look.

"I'm going to be working in the galley from now on," Jordan told him. "Assistant chef."

Kim regarded her with some surprise. "Really? Thank God. Reiya's been experimenting on us again. I'm pretty sure her personal interpretation of enchiladas qualifies as a violation of Federation ethics."

The Bolian woman shoved him hard on the arm. "Harry, I'm wounded. I thought you liked me."

He gave her a rather fetching smile. "I do like you, Reiya." He placed a protective hand over his stomach. "But your food doesn't like _me_."

Reiya snorted. "I've got to go, ladies," he said. "It was good seeing you again, Jordan. Bye, Reiya."

Reiya watched his retreating figure, eyeing him like the last slice of raspberry chocolate gateau. "Mmm," she purred appreciatively. "Harry Kim. Now there's a fine specimen of a human male."

Jordan smiled absently, but her mind was somewhere else — some _time_ else. "I suppose he's cute," she murmured.

"You suppose?" Reiya tore her eyes away and noticed her sudden distraction. "Hey, what's the matter?"  
  
She shook her head quickly. "Nothing. Just... the way he teased you about your cooking." She swallowed. "It reminded me of my boyfriend. He used to do the same thing."

The look of dismay on the woman's face was so exaggerated that it would have been comical, if it had not been so sincere. "You had a boyfriend? Oh, I'm so sorry. You've lost a lot of people, haven't you?" Jordan nodded, not trusting herself to speak for the moment. "Well, looks like I found you just in time. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's making people feel better." She gave a self-deprecating grin. "Even if my food ends up making them sick."  
  
Jordan smiled, and Reiya took her arm. "Come on," she said. "Let's get cooking."

* * *

"Damn, Doctor. How many times are you going to inject me with that hypospray thing? Are you trying to turn me into a biological weapon?"

The Doctor's patient did not seem to be in high spirits today.

He couldn't say he blamed Jordan for being annoyed. She had only just finished the last of her hormone treatments, and her immune system was fighting fit for the first time in years, and now she was back in the medical bay once again, this time for her first batch of inoculations. No wonder her patience was wearing thin.

As he loaded the next vaccine into his hypospray, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as she sat on the bio-bed, swinging her legs absently. She was certainly looking better, he had to admit. For one thing, she was no longer dangerously underweight; she had gained four or five kilograms over the past few weeks, and her frame was more willowy than gaunt. Her skin was not quite as ashen as it was, and her cheekbones did not stand out as sharply. All were encouraging signs of her progress.

"Don't worry, this is the last one for today," he told her. "Giving you too many vaccinations at once could lead to antigenic overload."

"Lovely," she grumbled.

He paused, hypospray dangling from his fingers. "I know these visits are getting tiresome, but you need these inoculations, Jordan. Remember, most people have either already contracted or been vaccinated for the more common alien diseases by the time they're your age. But you didn't grow up in this century. If you were to contract even a relatively minor illness, it could be extremely dangerous, even life-threatening."

Jordan arched an eyebrow. "So basically, after having survived cancer and cryostasis, I could keel over from the alien equivalent of the sniffles?"

The Doctor would not have put it so bluntly. "...Essentially, yes," he said at last.

The woman sighed, craning her head to allow easier access to her carotid artery. "Hypospray away, Doctor." He brushed aside her hair and pressed the instrument to her neck, injecting the vaccine. "What's this one for, rabies or distemper?"

He shot her a mock glare of exasperation, and she stuck out her bottom lip. "I'd better get a lollipop after this." At last a chuckle escaped him against his will. "He smiles," she remarked in amusement. "Finally."

It occurred to the Doctor that his own mood might have been affecting hers. Starfleet Headquarters had been hounding him relentlessly about the state of Jordan's health. They wanted to bring her to Earth as soon as possible, for a thorough debriefing on her association with Henry Starling and the extent of her knowledge regarding his dabbling in stolen technology from the future — which was precisely nil. If he'd had a stomach, the thought of subjecting her to that would have given him dyspepsia.

He determined at once to be more cheerful, for her sake. "So," he said as he began returning the hypospray and the various vaccine vials to their usual places, "how have things been going in the galley?"

As he'd hoped, this brought a smile to her face. "Not bad. It's taken me a while to familiarize myself with all the cooking apparatus. And of course, I have no idea what most of the ingredients are in the storage room. But so far I haven't poisoned anyone." She gave him a mischievous look. "I guess you would have heard about it if I had."

"And the head cook? She isn't working you too hard, I trust?"

"Reiya?" She shook her head. "No, she's been great. She makes sure my shifts are short, and forces me to take breaks. And she's a very good teacher, even if she talks entirely too much."

The Doctor smiled. "Bolians do have a reputation for loquacity," he said.

"And for eating partially decomposed meat. You neglected to mention that."

He looked at her sharply. "You haven't tried any of it, have you?"

She laughed. "I'm adventurous, Doc. I'm not insane." He relaxed, and she hopped down off the bio-bed. "Sorry, is it all right if I call you Doc?" she asked hesitantly.

The question caught him off guard. In truth, he had barely even noticed Jordan's use of his nickname. Nearly all of his friends called him "Doc"; they had never asked his permission, and he had never thought to give it. "Certainly," he told her, an odd warmth seeping into his emotional subroutines.

He returned to his work, and he sensed her gaze on him. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"How long do you think I'll be here, on Jupiter Station?"

The Doctor nearly dropped the vaccine he was holding. "Not that I want to leave," she went on quickly, unaware of the sudden sinking dismay that had come over him. "This place is amazing, and everyone here is wonderful. _You've_ been wonderful. It's just... I'm starting to get a little stir-crazy." She shrugged her slim shoulders. "I miss fresh air and sunshine, and feeling solid ground beneath my feet."

Relief flooded his program. Of course, she was experiencing cabin fever. It was extremely common in space-dwelling communities, and happened even to the most resilient individuals at one time or another. It was why all Starfleet personnel were allowed regular periods of shore leave. Regardless of rank or years of experience in space, it was a medical necessity.

"I was thinking," Jordan was saying, "after I've gotten all my vaccinations, maybe I could... visit Earth. Just for a couple days," she added. "I'd come right back."

He thought of Jordan, sitting in some briefing room at Starfleet Headquarters, surrounded by strangers plying her with questions. It would be anything but relaxing. "We'll see," he said slowly. "After your inoculations, perhaps."

She slumped visibly in disappointment. But he had no intention of letting her down. "In the meantime," he continued with a smile, "I may have a more immediate cure for your cabin fever."

"What's that?"

The Doctor's internal chronometer told him it was 18:20. His shift was over, and he had a few hours of recreation time saved up; he might as well put them to good use. "I'll have to keep an eye on you for a while, in case you should have a negative reaction to any of the vaccines," he said. "I think it's time to introduce you to a little place called the holodeck."

After confirming that one of the station's six holodecks were free, he led Jordan to the only one which was not currently occupied. As she watched him in undisguised curiosity, he perused the list of programs in the database, trying to think of one she would like. It would have to be somewhere quiet and relaxing, he decided, with beautiful scenery. At last he chose of Harry Kim's programs, a Polynesian resort.

"Computer, begin program Kim Four-Alpha, without the characters," he said.

" _Program is active,_ " was the computer's wooden reply. " _You may enter when ready._ "

The Doctor beckoned his companion forward. "After you."

Shooting him a suspicious look, Jordan walked up to the door, and it slid open with a mechanized whir. Immediately she gasped and stumbled backward, grabbing blindly at the Doctor's uniform.

"Sweet fancy Moses," she breathed.

He couldn't help smiling as he gently guided her into the holodeck, where they found themselves in a lush tropical paradise, under a canopy of palm trees stretching up toward a stunning azure sky. At their feet was a path leading through the jungle to a pristine beach and a clear blue lagoon, where a group of thatched-roof huts stood on poles over the water. A light breeze stirred their clothes and rustled through the palms, and the call of sea birds came to them faintly on the wind.

"How?" Jordan asked in a small voice. "How is this possible?"

"What you're looking at is a holographic simulation," said the Doctor. "In this case, a recreation of a resort in Rangiroa, an atoll in the Tuamotus. It's a group of islands approximately 350 kilometers northeast of Tahiti." He watched as she reached out and touched a nearby palm tree, feeling the rough bark. "Physically, of course, we haven't gone anywhere. We're still on Jupiter Station. Everything you see is composed of holo-matter; that is, projected photons held together by forcefields. Just like yours truly," he added proudly.

Jordan didn't reply. She continued down the path, past the palm trees, and onto the beach, while he trailed along behind her. For a long moment she simply stared out at the sea. Then, she unzipped her boots and pulled them off, setting them on the ground. Next came her socks. Finally she rolled up her leggings and stepped into the surf, letting it wash over her bare feet. Her eyes slid shut in unadulterated bliss.

The Doctor simply stood beside her, smiling softly. He watched as the tension that had settled in her muscles over the past weeks slowly drained away, and she released a deep, cleansing breath.

"I'm speechless," she said, after some time had passed. "This... is beyond anything I could have expected of human ingenuity. This isn't just amazing, it's... miraculous." Suddenly she turned toward him and swatted him on the arm. "Why didn't you show me this earlier?" she demanded.

His eyebrows rose. "When I revived you, you could barely walk across a room," he said with a smirk. "Surely you don't think I relished the thought of scraping you off the holodeck floor."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Point taken." A small smile touched her lips. "Smart-aleck."

They walked down the little wooden dock leading out across the lagoon, which connected a handful of bungalows, a restaurant, and a bar. Usually, the latter two were populated by holographic characters, but for the moment they were empty. As they strolled along the pier, the Doctor noticed that Jordan was watching him with a curious expression.

"You look... odd," she observed at length.

"How flattering," he said dryly.

"No, not like that!" she replied, laughing. "I mean, with your uniform, you look a bit... out of place with our current surroundings."

"Ah." He supposed she had a point. "Well, that's easily remedied. Computer, give me some new attire; something more appropriate for this program." In an instant, his black, gray, and teal uniform transformed into a pair of stone-colored slacks and a button-down shirt with a blue-and-white palm frond motif. "Better?" he asked Jordan.

She gave him an appraising once-over, before nodding. "I like it," she remarked with a smile. "Doctor Casual Friday."

"There's a name I hadn't considered." Jordan laughed again, and he decided he quite liked it. On impulse, he requested a lei, made of Tahitian orchids. It materialized on a nearby deck chair, and he picked it up and draped it around her neck. "There," he said. "Now you look like a proper _vahine_."

Was it his imagination, or was there a light blush staining her cheeks? "A half-Greek, half-English _vahine_?" she asked dubiously.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Humor me. I haven't been on a holodeck with a woman in years."

As soon as the words left his lips, he knew it had been a mistake. He watched as her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Oh, is _that_ what holodecks are for?" she said, her voice laden with innuendo.

It was his turn to blush. "Jordan!"

Chuckling again, she placed a hand on his arm as a peace offering. "Sorry. You're just so easy to tease." She looked up at him from under thick, dark eyelashes, and he underwent a sudden, brief stall in his visual subroutines. "I really can't thank you enough for taking me here. This is exactly what I needed. You're the best, Doc."

He cleared his throat. "I am, aren't I?" he joked, attempting to maintain the light mood. She simply gave him a tolerant smile.

They walked to the end of the pier, and Jordan sat down on the edge, letting her feet dangle in the water. As the Doctor gazed down at her profile, her hair shining iridescent in the glow of the artificial sunset, he experienced another strange glitch in his program. It was almost as if his optical sensors were malfunctioning; instead of taking in his surroundings, they had chosen to focus entirely on her.

As he watched, her serene expression faded, and her face grew troubled. Concerned, he sat down beside her. "Jordan? Is something the matter?"  
  
She sighed, looking out over the ocean. "I just wish my family could have seen this," she said quietly. "My dad was obsessed with the latest technology. This would have blown his mind. Hell, it would have blown Uncle Henry's mind, and he was the smartest person I ever met." Her remark made the Doctor shift uncomfortably; he had yet to tell her the full truth about her uncle. "And my sister was always traveling all over the world. I can only imagine what she'd think of this place. The idea of going anywhere you want, without leaving the room." She swallowed. "And Dean..."

This was her first mention of anyone of that name. "Dean?" he prompted gently.

"My boyfriend. We met after I moved to California. After I was diagnosed." She gave a small, sad smile. "We were together for almost three years."

Jordan had never said anything about a boyfriend before. No doubt she had wished to avoid the subject, and understandably so; a relationship of three years, ending so suddenly, must have been extremely painful. In fact, he knew exactly how painful it could be.

"He always wanted to take me on a romantic holiday, someplace tropical and exotic. Like this." She bit her lip. "But my health... it wasn't..."

"That was hardly your fault," he said, as kindly as he knew how.

She shook her head. "I know. I just... have a lot of regrets. I wish I knew..." She turned toward him. "Doctor, you were able to find out a lot about me from historical records, right?" He nodded slowly. "Do you think you could find out what happened to my family, after I got frozen? I tried looking in the computer database, but I don't really know where to begin."

The Doctor's brow furrowed at the thought of his friend, perusing death records and obituaries, looking for the names of people she loved. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he said. "It might be too upsetting for you."

Jordan laid a hand on his. "I appreciate your concern," she told him. "But before I can get on with my life, I need to know. I need closure. And I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

Looking into her pleading eyes, he felt his resolve weaken. "All right," he said with a sigh. "I'll see what I can do."

She smiled and gave his hand a grateful squeeze. As they sat together on the pier, the Doctor felt a sense of dread settle on him like a lead weight. He understood Jordan's desire for closure all too well — perhaps better than most. And yet, somehow, he just knew that this would end badly.

* * *

After the holodeck, Jordan decided, her favorite place on Jupiter Station was the galley. The cutting-edge cooking equipment, the bizarre and exotic ingredients, and the delicious, indecipherable aromas drew her to the place like a magnet even during her off-duty hours. Tonight, for instance, following her shift, she found herself lingering in the kitchen, preparing one of her specialties. She had burned her first sauce, still unused to the quickness and efficiency of the futuristic heating mechanism, but her second attempt was coming along nicely.

She almost felt like singing. So she did. "Birds flying high, you know how I feel," she sang as she stirred the sauce. "Sun in the sky, you know how I feel..."

Her voice drew Reiya Meraab over. For a long moment the Bolian stared at her, before her attention was drawn to the substance in the saucepan. She appeared distinctly unimpressed. "What in the four moons of Bole is that?" she asked.

Jordan smiled. "This, my friend, is traditional Greek _moussaka_. I learned this recipe from my grandmother. It's layers of pan-fried eggplant slices, followed by ground lamb cooked with red wine and puréed tomatoes, and topped with a creamy white béchamel sauce."

Reiya wrinkled her nose. "I don't know what any of things are, but it looks disgusting," she declared.

She reached out a hand toward the stirring spoon, and Jordan slapped it away. "Don't touch! I'm not done with it yet." She gestured toward the assembled dish on the counter, awaiting its final touch. "When it's finished, it will be a work of art."

The head cook scoffed. "You talk big, human. We'll see if you deliver."

"Get out of here." Reiya laughed and moved off, and she returned to her task, humming to herself under her breath.

She really was feeling good. The previous evening had been unforgettable; the Doctor had taken her to the holodeck, where she had been amazed by the hyper-realism of the Polynesian resort program. She had decided to go swimming, and the computer had replicated a bathing suit for her in the blink of an eye. She had floated on her back in the warm crystal waters, while the Doctor sat on the dock, reading a book and pretending to be unconcerned with what she was doing. The sweet, ridiculous man.

His protectiveness was endearing, but Jordan was feeling better every day. She had more energy, and did not tire as quickly. And she was cooking again, for the first time in years. She could hardly believe how much she had missed it. To top it off, she had made plans to visit Haley the following day. She was making friends, and enjoying her work, and was starting to feel at home. Finally, she felt alive.

She poured the béchamel sauce over the _moussaka_ and placed it in the fast-cooking oven, still singing to herself. "It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me, and I'm feeling—"

" _Doctor to Crewman Starling._ "

"Gah!" She jumped at the sudden sound of the Doctor's voice over the comm. Her heart pounding, she touched the badge on her dress. "Starling here." She smiled. "What's up, Doc?"

The joke was evidently lost on the hologram. " _I found the information you requested,_ " he said.

His words gave her pause for a moment. "The... oh!" He must have found some historical records pertaining her family. _That was quick,_ she thought. "That's great, Doctor. Thank you so much for doing that for me."

For some reason he neglected to acknowledge her expression of gratitude. " _I downloaded it onto a PADD for you,_ " he said, his voice sounding oddly strained. " _Are you in your quarters?_ "

Jordan frowned. "No, I'm still in the galley," she replied, wondering what had gotten into him. "I'm actually in the middle of something right now. Do you think you could just send it to my personal monitor thing? Is that possible?"

There was a long silence, and she began to wonder if the connection had somehow been lost. " _Yes,_ " the Doctor said slowly. " _But I should probably deliver it in person._ "

"Oh, I don't want to put you out," she told him quickly. "You've already done so much for me. Just send it to my quarters. Really, it's okay."

She heard him sigh softly. " _If that's what you want. Doctor out._ "

"Thank—" His voice cut out. "...you?" Her frown deepened. "Weird."

Reiya wandered over, having heard the conversation. "What was that about?"

"I asked the Doctor to look through the computer's historical database for information about my family," she explained. "I wanted to know what happened to them after I was put in cryostasis. He didn't sound very happy." As she pondered the possible reason for the Doctor's strange manner, a thousand unpleasant scenarios flashed through her mind. "What if it's bad news? Oh, God. What if they all died in a car accident a year after I was frozen? That'd be horrible."

"If they did, they did," said Reiya.

Jordan stared at her in disbelief. "Wow, thanks for that," she said sarcastically.

The Bolian woman shook her head. "No, what I mean is, history is history. Whether you know or not, it's not going to change what happened. You don't have to find out, but... can you live with _not_ knowing?" Jordan didn't answer. "Personally, I'd rather know the truth, whatever it is, than always wonder."

 _Any truth is better than indefinite doubt,_ Jordan thought, remembering a quote from Conan Doyle she once read. "You're right," she murmured. "I have to know."

"I can go with you," Reiya offered. "If you don't want to be alone when you find out."

Jordan smiled. "Thanks. But I think I'll be okay." The oven timer beeped, and she carefully took the layered dish out and laid it on the counter. Cutting out a square, she placed it on a plate and handed it to Reiya. "All right. Taste this and tell me it's not the best _moussaka_ you've ever had."

Obviously skeptical, Reiya carved out a piece with a fork and brought it to her mouth. To Jordan's amusement, her eyes slipped shut. After a moment she gave an approving nod. "This is definitely the best whatever-you-just-said I've ever had," she admitted. "But I still think it would be better if you'd left the meat raw."

"You're so gross."

By the time she returned to her quarters, Jordan's pulse was racing, and her stomach was in knots. She wanted to know what had become of her family, but at the same time, she was terrified. After pacing up and down her bedroom at least a dozen times, she finally sat down in front of her personal desktop monitor and turned it on.

Sure enough, a file was waiting for her. She opened it, and found that it began with a short message.

_"Jordan —_

_I'm sorry._

_— D."_

She swallowed. _Not the most encouraging start,_ she thought.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to continue reading. Scrolling down, she saw a number of official records and newspaper articles. The Doctor had certainly been thorough in his research. Her eyes widened as she saw a marriage license, listing her father's name alongside a name she recognized: Abigail Powell. Her father had married again, fourteen years after her mother's death, to none other than Jordan's old music teacher.

 _Way to go, Dad,_ she thought. She had always liked Abigail. They had remained married until his death, at age eighty-nine. A good, long life, she decided, although she still couldn't hold back the tears.

His certificate of death was followed by a series of newspaper articles and an official police report. To Jordan's dismay, it seemed that her uncle Henry had disappeared, just a few months after she had been put in cryostasis. There had been no clues as to what had become of him, and no body was ever found. Chronowerx, his company, had been passed on to a colleague, who swiftly ran it into the ground. The company was shut down in 1998. _Poor Uncle Henry,_ she thought, feeling a tear trickle down her cheek.

Something else caught her eye: another marriage license. This one bore the name of her older sister Sarah. She had apparently married, too, just six months after Jordan had been frozen. As she saw the other name on the license, her heart suddenly dropped like a stone.

Dean Peretti.

Her boyfriend.

Jordan stared at the monitor through a haze of tears. "Well," she said, her throat constricted. "That... really... sucks."

 


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, here's the latest chapter! Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, left kudos, etc. And thank you to A Quarter Past for being my beta reader, and for doing such a great job! Now I'm off to pack for a week-long vacation. Enjoy!

There were times, the Doctor mused, when being a hologram was not all it was cracked up to be.

Of course, the advantages he had over organic beings were numerous and obvious. He did not age or become ill, he did not require food or water or sleep or even a breathable atmosphere in order to survive. He did not need to bathe or perform the usual mundane tasks to maintain personal hygiene. Although he sometimes participated in physical activities, he had no need of exercise. And he was not burdened by the limitations of flesh and blood; in theory, his program could be expanded indefinitely.

On the other hand, there were definite drawbacks. The Doctor could only exist in places equipped with holo-emitters, or with the assistance of his own mobile emitter. He had no sense of taste or smell, a fact which he still lamented from time to time. There had been a memorable away mission during his time on _Voyager_ when, to preserve his program, Seven of Nine had temporarily downloaded it into her cortical node. Experiencing aromas and flavors for the first time had been exhilarating, but all too soon, his new gift had been snatched away. He would always miss the taste of cheesecake.

And then there was the issue of his lifespan. Immortality was the dream of nearly every sentient species in the galaxy, other than the Q. Barring some disastrous, irreparable damage to his program, the Doctor could technically live forever. With that knowledge, however, came the grim realization that someday, every one of his flesh-and-blood loved ones would die, while he would continue to exist. Indeed, the thought was such a dreadful one that he rarely allowed himself to think about it.

Perhaps one of the biggest disadvantages of being a hologram, though, was that he was acutely aware of his failings. When organics made mistakes, they could simply claim that it had been an accident, that they "hadn't been thinking." They were fallible beings, after all. But when the Doctor made a mistake, he could not blame it on a malfunction or a faulty algorithm. He could only blame himself.

For instance, he knew when he had sent the information he had found on Jordan Starling's family to her quarters, it had been the wrong thing to do. He _knew_ that he should not have listened to her request, that he should have waited and broken the news to her in person. That he should not have allowed her to be alone. But he had done it anyway. And his program had been functioning perfectly when he had done it.

What was worse, he still had not told her the truth about her uncle. However, there had never seemed to be a good time, and it was certainly out of the question for the present. The news that her boyfriend had married her sister, scant months after she had been placed in cryostasis, was devastating enough. How could he tell her that her own uncle had built his fortune on stolen technology from the future and had nearly used it to tear a hole in the universe?

No, that particular bombshell would have to wait. In the meantime, he had to rectify his mistake, or his ethical subroutines would continue to torment him.

Leaving Ensign Moss in charge of the medical bay, the Doctor boarded a turbolift and made his way to Deck Eleven. It was just past twenty-two hundred hours, and he passed few people on the way to Jordan's quarters. He hoped she was still awake.

He pressed the door chime and waited. There was no answer. He pressed it again, but still no response. He considered hailing her, but as his hand reached toward his own combadge, the door slid open, and Jordan stood before him, rubbing her eyes.

Her hair was a tangled mess, and she was wearing a blue nightdress which showed a bit more skin than he was prepared for.

"Doctor," she said, her voice slightly husky, "is something wrong?"

The Doctor determined resolutely to keep his gaze focused on her face, and not on her pale, willowy limbs.

"I... wanted to check on you," he said when his vocal processor decided to start working, "to make sure you were all right. I hope I didn't wake you."

Jordan nodded, causing him to flush guiltily, "Yeah, I went to bed early. It's been a long day. But don't worry about it. Come on in."

She moved aside, allowing him to step into the room. It was dark, illuminated only by the light of Jupiter and its moons outside the window. He watched as she curled up on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her. The Doctor took a seat beside her, already having rehearsed what he was going to say.

"Jordan," he said slowly, "I owe you an apology. When you asked me to find information about your family, I wondered if it might be too soon. After... finding out what I did, I should have listened to my instincts. And I certainly shouldn't have delivered the news the way I did. Can you forgive me?"

Her smooth forehead puckered at his words. "Forgive you?" she repeated. "There's nothing to forgive, Doc. I'm the one who asked you to send it to my quarters. I have only myself to blame for that. I _did_ say I was ready."

She sounded bitter, but not devastated. Indeed, other than her disheveled hair and slightly red eyes, she appeared perfectly fine, but the Doctor's conscience pricked him nevertheless.

"Still," he pressed, "I'm sorry."

He added gently, "How are you?"

Jordan exhaled; a soft, sad sound. "I'm... okay," she replied at length, staring down at her clasped hands. "I mean, I'm upset, but... that's not going to change what happened. Like Reiya said, history is history. I'll get over it."

The Doctor frowned. She was taking everything surprisingly well. _Too_ well. He had expected any number of reactions, but hearing her say that she would 'get over it' had not been one of them. She had every right to be distraught. So why was she not?

"If you need to talk—" he began.

"No." She spoke the word forcefully. "Thanks," she went on in a calmer tone, "but I think I just need some time alone, to let everything sink in. Does that make sense?"

It did, of course. He understood the need for solitude and quiet reflection, all too well. But he also knew that prolonged isolation would do her no good; quite the opposite, in fact.

"I suppose it does," he said. Then he smiled as an idea occurred to him. "Why don't we go to the holodeck tomorrow? There's a ski resort program in Trondheim, Norway I've been wanting to try. How do fresh powder and hot apple cider sound to you?"

Jordan smiled in return. "That sounds amazing. Maybe another time. I'm spending tomorrow afternoon with Haley."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said sincerely.

"You're welcome to join us, of course," she added.

The Doctor did not feel quite right about insinuating himself into their time together, but he supposed he could look in on her, just for a few minutes.

"Perhaps," he said simply.

He rose to his feet, and Jordan followed him to the door. He still felt strangely reluctant to leave her alone, in these dark, empty quarters. "You're sure you'll be all right?" he asked one last time, lingering outside the doorway.

"Yes," she replied firmly. "But it was sweet of you to check up on me."

 _It was the least I could do, after ruining your day,_ the Doctor thought ruefully, but he kept it to himself. "Not at all," he said softly.

"Well..." Jordan took a deep breath and mustered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Good night, Doc."

His heart — or the holographic equivalent of it — twisted in sympathy. "Good night, Jordan."

She stepped back from the door, and it slid shut with a hiss. The Doctor stood there for a while, staring at its smooth gray surface without really seeing it. She really had seemed fine; a little melancholy, but who could blame her? The fact that she was not in hysterics did not necessarily mean she was not grieving in her own quiet way, but she hadn't cancelled her plans with Haley. That was certainly an encouraging sign.

So why did he still feel as if he had let her down?

* * *

Jupiter Station's holography lab did not receive many visitors. This was because Lewis Zimmerman did not encourage them. He was a solitary man by nature; even as a child he had loathed group activities. He simply worked better on his own. With just a handful of exceptions, he regarded people as a distraction and a nuisance. Fortunately, people didn't much care for him, either.

Above all, he hated being disturbed while in the middle of a project. And today, he was working on one that would change everything. Not so much for society, but for two of the few people he actually did care about. If it worked, they would owe him their eternal gratitude in addition to already owing him their lives. It would not be easy, but he was confident he could pull it off. After all, he was a genius.

There was a small part of Zimmerman that wondered if what he was doing was frivolous. He doubted there were many other scientists at the top of their fields who would sacrifice so much of their free time on such a ridiculous endeavor. But he also knew how much it would mean to Haley, and especially to the Doctor. At the very least, it would stop his whining.

When had his life become so insane? He decided it had started the day the Doctor had sent himself through the Midas array and materialized in the middle of his lab. Prior to that eventful meeting, Zimmerman had been slowly wasting away from acute cellular degradation. The finest physicians in the quadrant had been unable to find a cure, and he had resigned himself to the inevitability of his imminent demise. And then that blasted EMH Mark I had shown up.

He was the embodiment of Zimmerman's own failure. The only reason he had not been decommissioned along with the other Mark I’s was because his ship had been thrown halfway across the galaxy by means of some bizarre alien technology. The Doctor, of course, had no way of knowing he was the last of his kind still serving in a medical capacity. All he knew was that his creator was dying, and he believed he could save him. So he had his program sent all the way to the Alpha quadrant. Typical Mark I arrogance.

The worst part was that he was so _earnest_. Zimmerman had been criticized countless times for the brusque, irritable personality of the EMH Mark I, but somehow, this one had gained compassion, loyalty, and a genuine passion for his work. He even had friends; more friends than Zimmerman himself had. It had been humiliating to learn that the only Mark I to escape the fate of the others had done so in spite of his programming, not because of it. He had grown in ways no hologram ever had.

Even now, it was still hard to look at him sometimes — this younger version of himself, more friendly, cheerful, and full of life than he had ever been. And with a richer social life. But he had overcome a great deal to get where he was: the first hologram to be granted sentience, and the first to be made a Starfleet officer. And he had saved his life. Zimmerman was proud of him.

Not that he would ever tell him.

"Are you planning on taking a shower at any point today?"

At the sound of Haley's voice over his shoulder, Zimmerman nearly leaped out of his chair.

"Damn it!" he swore, quickly turning off his work station. "Don't sneak up on me like that, or I'll re-program you to wear little bells on your shoes. You think I won't do it, but—"

"I told you, Jordan Starling is coming this afternoon," she said, frowning down at her creator, her arms folded across her chest. "You promised you'd at least _look_ presentable."

"That doesn't sound like me."

She glowered. "Lewis."

"Fine, fine." With a put-upon sigh, he turned in his chair to face her. "So. You and Freezer Girl are becoming fast friends. Good. You really need to get out more, Haley. I didn't install holo-projectors throughout the whole station just so you could spend all your time cooped up in here."

Haley raised a pale, skeptical eyebrow. " _You're_ lecturing _me_ about not going out?" she asked dryly.

"Don't give me that look," said Zimmerman, shaking a finger at her. "I designed that look."

She pursed her lips. "Just... be nice," she said, her eyes pleading.

"I _am_ nice," he argued, causing Haley to snort with laughter.

"What?" he asked.

She just shook her head and left, laughing to herself as she went.

Zimmerman watched her go, then allowed himself a small smile. Then, with another beleaguered sigh, he rose and dragged himself off to his room for a quick sonic shower, because he was a sucker.

He had nearly finished dressing when he heard the door chime. Thinking it was Jordan Starling, he ignored it, assuming Haley would let her in. When the chime sounded again, he quickly pulled on his shoes and made his way to the door, muttering curses under his breath. What good was an assistant if he still had to do everything himself?

He opened the door, and was greeted by an unexpected and unwelcome sight. A tall, slim, statuesque blue beauty stood in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear. It was, of course, the station's head cook, Reiya Meraab. She was holding a covered platter, no doubt containing some inedible horror.

"Hi, Dr. Z!" she said brightly.

His hand moved toward the 'close' button. Unfortunately, Haley returned from whatever task had been occupying her and strategically placed herself between him and the door panel.

The woman addressed his assistant. "Haley, right? I'm Reiya. I've seen you a few times around the station."  
  
"Of course," Haley replied. "Hello, Reiya."

"This isn't real," Zimmerman murmured. "I'm dreaming. Quick, Haley, slap me awake."

Reiya ignored the comment. "I hate being the bearer of bad news, but Jordan wanted me to let you know that she won't be able to come today. She's not feeling well. But she asked me to give you this." She held out the covered dish. "I think she called it blueberry pie."

Zimmerman eyed the object with suspicion, before taking it from her outstretched hands. "So you didn't make this?" he asked slowly, peeking under the lid.

"I hope it's not anything serious," said Haley. "With Jordan, I mean. Does the Doctor know?"  
  
"I don't think so. She just said she was feeling run down, and needed to rest. Well, you know Jordan. She's much better than she was, but she still tires easily."

Haley nodded. "Yes, of course. Thanks for letting us know."

"No problem!" the woman chirped. "Have a great day! Bye, Dr. Z!"

She turned and left, striding down the corridor on her long legs.

Zimmerman shook his head. "That woman is an enigma. How can any species be that cheerful, living that close to the Romulans? It defies logic."

Removing the lid from the dish, he grabbed a fork and brought a mouthful of pie to his mouth. "Oh," he nearly groaned. "Hello, beautiful."

Haley watched him in amusement.

"Do you two need a moment alone?" she joked.

Zimmerman took another bite, resisting the urge to inhale it. "This almost doesn't even need coffee with it." He looked at Haley pointedly and added, "I said _almost_."

"The replicator's eight steps away," she said flatly.

He sighed, "Remember when you were actually my assistant?"

Her shrug was not nearly as innocent as she no doubt imagined it was. "My memory circuits must have degraded a little over the years."

"How convenient," he muttered.

He got a cup of coffee from the replicator and sat down, preparing to enjoy his unexpected treat. But within minutes, the door chime rang again. This time he steadfastly refused to get up, leaving Haley with no choice but to answer the door. The Doctor strode in, looking around in obvious confusion.

Zimmerman glanced up at him, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What's your problem?"  
  
"Where's Jordan?" he demanded.

"Freezer Girl? She canceled." He ignored the Doctor's glare at his choice of nickname. "But she sent that Bolian over with some pie. It's... not bad," he conceded, causing Haley to snort.

The Doctor's brow darkened. "I had a feeling she was just putting on a brave face," he said, seemingly to himself. At his family's blank expressions, he explained, "She asked me to dig up some information on her family. I'm afraid that what I found may have been too much for her to handle."

"What's that?" asked Haley.

He sighed and lowered himself into a chair, resting his forearms on his knees. With his hunched shoulders and hanging head, he resembled an exaggerated portrait depicting dejection and remorse. Zimmerman wondered, not for the first time, just where he had gotten his flair for melodrama.

"The man she was romantically involved with married her sister," he said quietly, "just a few months after she went into cryostasis."

Haley gave a soft gasp. "Oh, no. That's awful."

Zimmerman winced. "Yikes. What a low blow. Poor kid."

The Doctor turned to him in surprise. "Lewis," he exclaimed, "I had no idea you were capable of expressing sympathy."

"Shut up," he growled. "I'm a misanthrope. I'm not a monster. Not toward cute brunettes who can make good pie, anyway."

Both of his creations rolled their eyes, but Zimmerman continued, "What about her uncle, the psycho? Have you told her about him yet?"

"No." The Doctor wearily rubbed his forehead, as if he were getting a headache — as if he were actually _capable_ of getting a headache. "I know I should, and the longer I wait, the harder it will be, but I just can't. Especially not now. Not after this."

"You still think it was a mistake to revive her?" asked Zimmerman, sipping his coffee.

"I never said it was a mistake," the Doctor said in a defensive tone. "I had my concerns, of course, but... no. Whatever it was that made Henry Starling a cold, ruthless maniac, it seems to have skipped a generation."

Zimmerman regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "Has it ever occurred to you that there may have been more to the man than that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said the girl was frozen in 1996, right? The same year _Voyager_ got trapped. The same year Starling intended to launch the timeship. Did you ever stop to think that maybe one of the reasons he planned on going to the future was to bring a cure back for his niece?"

The Doctor blinked. "I... I never thought of that," he admitted in a low voice.

Zimmerman snorted. "Obviously."

He set down his coffee. "Look, people may be stupid, annoying, and mindlessly cruel, but very rarely are they one hundred percent good or bad. Henry Starling may have been a cold, ruthless maniac, but apparently he cared about that kid. If he hadn't, she wouldn't be here now."

It was one of those rare moments Zimmerman lived for. He had actually succeeded in rendering the Doctor speechless.

After savoring the silence for a few precious seconds, he returned his attention to his pie. "Well, so long," he said, waving a dismissive hand.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, the Doctor rose to his feet. After murmuring a vague farewell, he drifted to the door.

"You know," Zimmerman couldn't help remarking, "it's too bad you can't eat this. It's really quite good."

The Doctor left with a sigh, and Haley gave her creator her most disapproving glare. But Zimmerman simply ate his pie, forcing down a chuckle of barely-suppressed glee.

 _Ju_ _st you wait, my boy,_ he thought. _Just you wait._

* * *

Discovering the computer's musical database had proven to be something of a mixed blessing for Jordan. On the one hand, she could listen to all her favorite musicians, after wondering if she would ever be able to hear them again. On the other hand, those same songs she loved also brought with them a flood of unpleasant memories.

It was strangely appropriate that Marvin Gaye's ‘ _Heard It Through the Grapevine_ ’ should be playing as she sat on her bed, leafing through her old journal. The more she read about all the wonderful experiences she had shared with Dean, the more it gradually dawned on her that they had all been lies. And the more the realization sank in, the angrier she became — not just at Dean, but at herself.

How blind she had been. How naïve of her to think that he had stayed with her all those years out of anything but a sense of obligation or guilt. All she had ever been to him was a millstone around his neck, weighing him down. But how could he ever break up with a dying girl? Why would he, when all he had to do was bide his time until she kicked the bucket, leaving him free to be with the woman he'd wanted all along?

Her sister. Her own _sister_.

Suddenly she couldn't seem to stop crying. Flinging her journal across the room, she brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins, her body shaking with silent sobs.

She had no idea how long she sat there before she realized that someone was pressing the door chime. Or, more accurately, _leaning_ against the door chime. Jordan paused the music and scrubbed at her face with her sleeve in a half-hearted, fruitless attempt to clean herself up. Then, reluctantly, she dragged herself out of her bedroom and went to the door.

It was the Doctor.

"Jordan," he said simply.

The sight of him standing there, his eyes filled with pity and sorrow and compassion, was too much for her to bear. Wordlessly, she shuffled forward and buried her face in his uniform. His arms went around her, holding her tightly. In that moment, she forgot that he was a hologram, and that she was a four-hundred-year-old living fossil stranded in the wrong time. She was in need of comfort, and he was glad to give it. He was warm, and solid, and real.

After some time had passed, the Doctor gently led her over to the sofa and made her sit down. She watched as he went over to the replicator on the wall and, to her surprise, ordered a hot buttered rum.

As he pressed the mug into her hands, she looked up at him with raised eyebrows. "I'm surprised you're prescribing alcohol," she rasped, her voice hoarse from crying.

"It's synthehol," he replied, taking a seat next to her. "Harmless in small amounts, and with none of the deleterious after-effects of alcohol."

She took a sip, letting the hot, sweet liquid soothe her raw throat. It was quite possibly the best thing she had ever tasted.

"The way I see it," the Doctor continued quietly, "if I were in your position, and if I weren't a hologram, I'd probably want a stiff drink myself."

Jordan smiled despite herself. "Your insight into the organic mind is uncanny," she said, reaching out and giving his hand a grateful squeeze.

All too soon, though, her smile faded. "God, I feel such an idiot, Doctor."

She might have known he would try to contradict her. "You shouldn't."

"No offense, Doc, but please don't tell me how to feel," she muttered. It was difficult to speak past the lump in her throat. "You know why Dean and I never got married? Because he never asked me. I figured it was because... my health made everything so uncertain. He wanted to take it one day at a time. But apparently he just felt sorry for me. He stayed because he didn't want to be the guy who broke up with the girl with cancer."

"You don't know that," the Doctor countered.

She let out a bitter laugh. "How else do you explain it? I get put in cold storage, and six months later, he marries my sister?"

He tried a different tack. "People deal with grief in strange ways, Jordan."

"What part of 'six months later' are you not getting, Doctor?" she snapped, finally losing her patience.

The Doctor was silent. Evidently he had realized that what she needed was a listening ear, and that his attempts to play Devil's advocate were not as well-received as he had intended. He was a smart man.

Jordan shook her head, dragging her sleeve across her eyes again. "I thought he loved me," she murmured. "I thought they both did. But the whole time... they were just waiting for me to die."

The Doctor simply placed a hand on her back. She leaned against him wearily, resting her head on his shoulder.

"And poor Uncle Henry," she said, as he began rubbing her back in slow, comforting circles. "I can't imagine how Dad must have felt when he just disappeared like that. How does that even happen? Especially to someone so famous?"

The Doctor's hand halted momentarily, before resuming its ministrations.

"Ugh, why did I have to satisfy my damned curiosity?" she lamented. "I was doing so well. I was starting to feel like I could be happy here. Like I actually belonged here. And then I had to go and ask you about my family. I guess it's true what they say; ignorance is bliss."

There was another silence, and then the Doctor cleared his throat.

"Actually, it isn't," he said in a low voice.

Jordan raised her head to look up at him. "What?"

His expression was somber, his eyes betraying a hidden pain. "I'm going to tell you something," he said slowly, "that I haven't told many people. Not Harry. Not even Lewis or Haley."

She nodded, her own eyes wide.

"When _Voyager_ was still in the Delta Quadrant," he began, "we happened upon a planet that was displaced in time. Its rate of rotation was so fast that every second that passed on _Voyager_ was the equivalent to almost a full day on the planet. While we were investigating, the ship got caught in its gravitational pull, causing geological disturbances to the planet in the form of severe earthquakes. Eventually the inhabitants realized that _Voyager_ was causing the seismic activity; they even sent a message to the 'Sky Ship', asking us to please stop destroying their planet."

Jordan shook her head, confused by his apparent non sequitur. "All this is fascinating, Doctor, but—"

"I'm getting to the point. Please be patient."

She fell silent, holding in a sigh of frustration.

"We decided we should go down to the planet, to gather sensor readings, see if we could find a way to break orbit. The only problem was, none of the crew could survive the stress caused by the time differential. None, except me."

He gave a small shrug. "So I went. It was only supposed to be for a few seconds, but... they lost my signal. By the time they were able to beam me back to _Voyager_ , three years had passed on the planet."

It took a few seconds for the Doctor's words to sink in. "You were there for _three years?_ " she asked, not bothering to conceal her surprise.  
  
The Doctor nodded. "I altered my physical parameters to blend in with the inhabitants. Within the first few days I was there, I happened upon a woman who was in labor. The father was out of the picture, and she was terrified. I delivered the baby, and she was so grateful, she wanted to name him after me."  
  
He chuckled in remembrance. "I panicked. I blurted out the first name I could think of, which happened to be from a ridiculous old film my friend Tom Paris had forced me to watch, called _Jason and the Argonauts_. So, she named him Jason."

Jordan knew the film of which he spoke, and couldn't help smiling at the idea of anyone referring to the Doctor as 'Jason'.

"The woman, Mariza, soon figured out that I had nowhere to go and no idea what to do, so she very irresponsibly offered to let me stay with her. She always was far too trusting."

The Doctor suddenly looked away, a slight pink tint coloring his cheeks. "I suppose it's not hard to guess what happened next. We were both lonely, and craving companionship, and we grew to care for one another. Eventually we married. And even though I wasn't Jason's father, I loved him like he was my own."

Jordan felt as though she were seeing the Doctor with new eyes. She had never thought of him as _just_ a hologram; he was too kind, too genuine, too unique to be merely a product of human engineering. But at the same time, she had never thought of him as a man with needs, and had certainly never pictured him with a wife or a son. And she was ashamed at herself for underestimating his capacity for love.

"I always knew I'd lose them," he said softly. "I — _both_ of us knew that as long as we could see _Voyager_ up in the night sky, they were still looking for me. We knew it was only a matter of time until they found me and brought me back."

The Doctor swallowed. "And then one day, they did. And I never saw Mariza or Jason again. Even if I could have convinced the captain to send me back, they would have been long gone."

The quiet, resigned manner in which he spoke of his loss nearly broke Jordan's heart. "Oh, Doctor," she whispered.

He patted her back comfortingly — after recounting such a devastating experience, _he_ was still comforting _her_. "I still wonder what became of them, after I left," he confessed. "If Mariza ever found love again. If she had any more children. What sort of man Jason grew up to be. But I'll never know."

"I don't know what to say," murmured Jordan, gazing at him through her tears.

"You don't have to say anything. I just want you to know that I understand. I understand what you're going through. That's why you can believe me when I say that ignorance is _not_ bliss."

His meaning was clear. She knew what had become of her family. Not all of it was welcome knowledge, but at least she knew. The Doctor would never know what had become of his family.

"I'm so sorry," she said miserably.

The Doctor's lips curved in a soft smile. "Don't be. They loved me, just like your family loved you."

Her head sank to his shoulder again. For a while they sat together in silence. And then, slowly, Jordan wrapped her arms around the Doctor's waist. His hold on her tightened, and as she grieved for her lost family, he mourned for his.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I'm currently studying to become a vet tech, and it is a crap-ton of reading. By the end of the day, my eyes are crossed, my head is pounding, and the last thing I feel like doing is typing in front of a computer screen. So I've been working on this latest chapter in small increments. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, and who waited so patiently. And thank you to my beta reader, A Quarter Past. Someday I hope to write as well as you do!

The Doctor loved his job. This in itself was rather remarkable, considering that he had been given no choice in the matter. Nearly all sentient beings had the free will to decide their occupation. Holograms, on the other hand, were not afforded such a luxury. Their destinies were predetermined by their programmers, and they accepted them without question. Upon blinking into existence, the Doctor had known exactly what he was and what purpose he served, and he had never given it a second thought. He simply hadn't known anything else.

As he gradually became self-aware, however, he began to notice the disparity between himself and his _Voyager_ crewmates. Each and every one of them had chosen their particular profession, but he had not. The more he thought about it, it seemed somewhat unfair. Of course, he would never think of refusing medical treatment to anyone; he had been programmed with the Hippocratic Oath, after all. But a doctor who had never agreed to be a doctor might conceivably perform his duties with a certain amount of resentment.

Curiously enough, the Doctor did not feel that way. True, he had grumbled a bit in the beginning, especially when the injuries and ailments he had been expected to treat were the direct result of a patient's stupidity or total lack of regard for safety. (Tom Paris had been particularly vexing in that regard.) But to his own surprise, he found himself enjoying his work. He felt a real sense of satisfaction in helping people that had nothing to do with his programming. After all, Zimmerman had only designed him to do his job; he had never designed him to like it.

Then again, some days were better than others.

Today, for example, the Doctor had been obliged to treat a broken arm, the third such injury sustained by a female crew member who persisted in ice skating despite the fact that she was clearly terrible at it. When he had helpfully suggested that she might try a safer activity, she stared at him like his matrix had suddenly sprouted another head. He had also been forced to admonish another patient — a scientist, no less — for over-indulging in foods to which he was extremely allergic. The man's reply had been a curt, abrupt dismissal: "Stick to your own business, Doc, and stay out of mine."

Evidently there were still some people on Jupiter Station who did not feel the need to extend basic courtesy to holograms, regardless of their rank.

It was a relief at the end of the day when the Doctor's shift was finally over. He felt frustrated, unappreciated, and if he was being honest with himself, just a tad hurt. He liked organics; he really did. But sometimes they could be so... ungrateful.

With a simulated sigh, he rose from his desk and left his office, his stride lacking its usual confident swagger. He couldn't wait to go to his quarters and kick back with a good book. Or perhaps he would do a little painting. Yes, he liked the sound of that.

As he made his way down the hall into the main medical bay, he was greeted by an unexpected but not unwelcome sight. His assistant, Simon Moss, was standing at his work station, cataloguing the results of a series of bacterial cultures. He was currently engaged in a lively discussion with Jordan Starling.

"Seriously?" she was saying. "You've read the _entire_ 'Hitchhiker' series? Already?"

"Couldn't put them down," Moss replied. "That Douglas Adams was a scream. I just love his absurdist humor. I don't suppose you could recommend some similar writers?"

She thought for a moment. "If you like absurd, you can't go wrong with Terry Pratchett."

"Never heard of him."

Jordan's mouth fell open in feigned shock. "Never heard of Terry Pratchett. And you call yourself an Englishman."

The Doctor chuckled to himself.

Jordan turned at the sound, and her face lit up in a smile. "Hey, Doc!" she said brightly.

The hologram was warmed by her genuine pleasure to see him. He was, however, rather puzzled to see _her_. "Hello, Jordan," he answered, coming to join the two. "This is a pleasant surprise. Your next batch of inoculations isn't due for another three days."

She nodded. "I know. I'm here to rescue you from your life of drudgery. I reserved a couple hours in the holodeck. I thought I'd take you up on that offer to go skiing in Trondheim." Her smile wavered, almost imperceptibly. "Unless you have other plans..."

An evening alone in his quarters, or on the slopes with his charming young friend? The choice was not a difficult one. "That sounds wonderful," he said sincerely.

Her smile returned in full force. "How about you, Simon?" she inquired of his assistant. "Are you in?"

Moss's gaze flickered briefly toward the Doctor. "Thanks, but I think I'll stay in and brush up on my ancient literature. Wouldn't want to be a disgrace to my English heritage."

"A little less of that 'ancient' stuff, if you don't mind," Jordan said dryly, placing her hands on her hips.

Moss just snickered and returned to his work. Jordan watched him for a few moments. "Out of curiosity," she continued conversationally, "what part of England are you from?"

The corner of his lips twitched. "None of them. I was actually born and raised in the Utopia Colony, on Mars."

" _Mars?_ " Jordan exclaimed, drawing back in surprise. "Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids! It's cold as hell!"

Both Moss and the Doctor looked at her blankly, and she sighed. "Damn it, no one gets my jokes in the future," she lamented, kicking at the carpet with the toe of her boot.

The Doctor shook his head in fond exasperation. "I do wish you'd stop calling this 'the future'," he told her.

Jordan simply shot him a mischievous grin. He rolled his eyes, but inwardly he was relieved beyond measure by her good spirits. Over the last couple of weeks, she had been so quiet, so joyless, so despondent. Of course, it was only understandable, given the terrible news she had been given — that he had so insensitively broken to her. Even her smile had had a heartbreaking quality that hurt to look at, like that of a tragic heroine in a Greek play. He had begun to grow concerned that her progress toward recovery had had a setback, and that she was in danger of suffering a relapse.

But today she was positively incandescent. She had forsaken her recent monochromatic wardrobe choices in favor of a bold peacock-green dress that brought out the subtle highlights in her hair. There was a healthy pink flush to her cheeks, and a playful glint in her eyes. As Chakotay would put it, she looked "fighting fit".

 _This_ was why he loved being a doctor. Less than a month ago, Jordan Starling had been a sight evoking pity; an ashen, emaciated scarecrow just barely clinging to life. Now she was a lively, vivacious, beautiful young woman with endless possibilities before her. He could not have been more proud.

He tuned back in to the discussion.

"My parents were from Kent, if that helps," Ensign Moss was telling her. "Folkestone and Canterbury. I still visit my relatives there during my shore leave. Beautiful place, Kent. Nothing but rolling green hills dotted with sheep, crumbling old castle ruins, and limestone cliffs."

"It sounds lovely," the Doctor remarked.

The ensign darted another quick glance at him. It was a strange glance. The Doctor almost got the feeling that Moss resented his participation in their conversation.

Jordan did not seem to notice. "Where do you like to spend your shore leave, Doctor?" she asked him.

"Usually with my friends, Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres," he replied. "They live on Mars, too, at the Utopia Planitia shipyards. B'Elanna designs shuttle crafts, and Tom takes them on test flights. When they don't have their hands full raising my god-daughter."

She blinked at him. "I didn't know you had a god-daughter."

The Doctor smiled. "Miral. She's two years old. She's the burgeoning artist who painted the masterpiece in my office."

Jordan chuckled. "Yes, I'd wondered about that. What is that supposed to be, anyway? A turtle?"

He shot her an indignant look. "It's me."

"Oh. Whoops." She raised a hand to her mouth and coughed in an unconvincing attempt to conceal a laugh. "Well, I couldn't do much better. I have no real talents, except for cooking."

"Mmm, not true," Moss interjected, typing at his work station. "According to Reiya, you're quite the little songbird in the galley."

The Doctor turned to Jordan, whose face had taken on a distinctly fuchsia tint. "You sing?" he asked, delighted.

She waved a hand, a little too nonchalantly. "Nah. Not really. Nowhere near as good as you."

Moss suddenly scoffed. "The Doctor can't sing," he muttered, almost to himself.

The hologram's eyebrows rose at this. "I beg your pardon?" he said, folding his arms over his chest.

His assistant met his gaze, and his smile was somewhat cynical. "Let's be honest, Doctor. Downloading some singing subroutines into your program and fancying yourself a virtuoso isn't quite the same thing as _real_ talent, is it?"

"Ah, of course," said the Doctor with a knowing smile. He turned to Jordan. "Ensign Moss here doesn't approve of the holographic method of acquiring information."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Moss leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. "How shall I put this? Let's say you wanted to learn how to, I don't know, juggle. Well, you'd read books and watch visual material to learn the correct method, and then you'd practice and practice until you got it right. But with a hologram, it's just a matter of saying, 'Oh, I think I'd like to know how to juggle today,' and then like that—" He snapped his fingers; "you're a juggling master. No practice, no effort involved whatsoever. It's all a bit unfair, isn't it?"

Jordan considered this for a moment. "Actually," she said slowly, "I think it's kind of awesome."

Moss sighed. "I can see you've poisoned her against me already," he said to the Doctor.

"Well," she went on, "I don't really see much of a difference between downloading the ability to sing and being born with it." She smiled at the Doctor. "Anyway. I think you have a nice voice, Doc. It's very... you."

He returned her smile. "Thank you, Jordan."

After a pause, he cleared his throat. "You don't... sing opera, by any chance, do you?"

"Don't start."

He opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment his comm badge gave a chirp. " _Ops to the Doctor,_ " came the disembodied voice. " _You have an incoming transmission._ "

"Thank you, I'll take it in my office." He rested a hand lightly on Jordan's shoulder. "I won't be long. Don't leave without me."

She assured him she would wait for him, and he returned to his office and seated himself at his desk. He hoped it was not Starfleet Headquarters, demanding more updates on Jordan's condition. He had been sending them regular progress reports, but they were growing impatient. And he wasn't sure how long he could put them off.

With a sense of trepidation, the Doctor switched on his personal monitor and opened the comm link. To his surprise, he found himself face-to-face with one of the last people in the galaxy he had ever expected to see again.

Alicia De Witt was a reporter from Earth, whom he had met during his sentience hearings at Starfleet Headquarters. He had found her intelligence and sharp wit to be quite attractive, and she had given every indication that the attraction was mutual. They had dated, very briefly, until it became swiftly evident that she was only using him to get an exclusive story, and he promptly ended the relationship. If one could call it that.

She was a very striking woman, with graceful features and long, copper-red hair. There was something just a bit ruthless and hungry about her gaze, though, that reminded him of a fox preparing to pounce on its prey.

"Doctor," she said with a dazzling smile. "It's Alicia De Witt. You remember me, don't you?"

 _Unfortunately,_ he almost said aloud. "Of course. Alicia. To what do I owe this... pleasure?"

If she noticed the distaste in his tone, she gave no sign. "I know you value directness, so I'll come straight to the point. I was wondering if you could do me a favor, for old times' sake."

The Doctor raised a sardonic eyebrow. "'Old times' sake'?" he repeated incredulously. "We went on precisely three dates. During which, as I recall, you secretly recorded my every word."

Alicia gave a coy shrug of her shoulders which he found intensely irritating. "What can I say? My readers found you fascinating."

"Not for long, apparently," he dead-panned.

"I'm sorry you feel your privacy was violated, Doctor. But you can't deny that my articles drew attention to your plight and helped raise awareness for holographic rights."

The Doctor was in no mood to be drawn into an argument about the past. "What is it you want, Alicia?" he asked impatiently.

She swept her hair casually out of her face. "I heard a very interesting rumor the other day," she said, "that you have a new resident on Jupiter Station. A very, very _old_ new resident. Around four hundred years old, in fact."

The Doctor stiffened in his chair. "And where, pray tell, did you hear such a preposterous rumor?" he inquired, trying his best to sound both annoyed and amused.

"You know I can't reveal my source," Alicia chided good-naturedly. "But I can assure you, it's a very reliable one. I know that her name is Jordan Starling, that she's from the twentieth century, that she was found in some subterranean lab, and that you brought her out of cryostasis and treated her for terminal cancer."

Outwardly, the Doctor was calm, but beneath his deliberately cool exterior he was boiling with rage and indignation. "That's quite a compelling tale you've spun," he said evenly. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid it's pure fiction."

"Oh, I nearly forgot the most interesting part. It seems that this young woman happens to be the niece of the infamous Henry Starling, the man who single-handedly almost tore a hole in the space-time continuum." Her smile never faltered. "But you know all about Henry Starling, don't you, Doctor?"

He was silent, too stunned to speak. This was like a nightmare, he thought. How had she found out about Jordan? Nobody on Jupiter Station knew the truth about her past, save for a small handful. And none of them would have told what they knew to any reporters. So how could word have gotten out?

And of all the reporters in the quadrant, _why_ did it have to be Alicia De Witt?

She sighed. "Look, there's no point in playing dumb, Doctor. As you can see, I know everything."

He was grudgingly forced to concede that she was right. "If that's true," he said wearily, "then why are you speaking to me?"

"Simple." She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she were giving him directions to a cafe. "Because you can get me an exclusive with her."

Despite himself, the Doctor barked an incredulous laugh. "What makes you think I would ever agree to that? Wait, let me guess. For _old times' sake_."

"Exactly. And because I'm the best person to do the interview." She leaned forward in her excitement. "Think about it, Doctor. It's the perfect human interest story. The dying girl who bravely placed herself in stasis, not knowing if or when she would ever wake up. The brilliant, compassionate physician who saved her life. Her struggle to leave her past behind and embrace a strange and exciting new future. She would be famous."

"And that's exactly why it's never going to happen."

Alicia frowned. "Shouldn't that be her decision?"

"She's my patient," the Doctor said firmly, "and the last thing she needs is to be swarmed by reporters."

"At the very least, you could ask her—"

"I said no." His voice was sharp. "Will that be all?"

He watched as she appeared to struggle for a moment. But before long, her unsettling, predatory smile returned. "Your dedication to your patient is touching, Doctor," she said. "But please let me be clear: This is simply a courtesy call. Your permission is not necessary. If you choose to cooperate, I can personally guarantee that you will be allowed to review the final draft before I submit it to my editor. But either way, I'm writing this story. How I write it is up to you."

The Doctor found himself holding onto the edge of his desk with a vise-like grip. "Allow me to stop you right now, Alicia, before you embarrass yourself further," he said in a low, steady voice, somehow managing to conceal his outrage. "If you have learned anything about me, then you already know your scare tactics won't work on me. I can't be bullied or intimidated."

Alicia nodded, as if she expected such an answer. "I know. It's one of the things I find so attractive about you. You're a tough one, Doctor. But I'm not worried. I'll wear you down eventually."

"I beg to differ," he said flatly. "Goodbye."

He cut off the transmission, silently fuming. Then, with an uncharacteristic oath, he slammed his hand on his desk.

When he was calmer, he returned to the main medical bay to find Jordan waiting patiently for him. The sight of her cheerful, expectant face was, to him, the emotional equivalent to a sucker-punch to the stomach.

"You ready to hit the slopes?" she asked eagerly. "I should warn you now, I've only been skiing once, and I spent most of the time flat on my behind. To be honest, I was more interested in drinking hot toddies in the chalet."

Her brow furrowed as she seemed to notice the change in his mood. "Doc, are you all right?" she asked gently.

The Doctor offered her a quick smile. "Perfectly," he assured her.

But this time, it was his smile that was tinged with melancholy.

* * *

If there was one unpleasant truth of which Jordan Starling was constantly reminded, it was that she was embarrassingly out of shape. To be fair, her cancer and the harsh treatments she had undergone were to blame for her loss of stamina and for the utter destruction of her immune system. It was to be expected that her recovery would take some time. And it was true that she had already made a great deal of progress; when she had been revived, she could hardly walk across a room without stopping to catch her breath. But now, only just a few days ago, she had gone skiing for the first time in years. Although technically, about eighty-five percent of it had been sliding downhill on her backside.

But still, progress had been a bit too slow for her liking. That much was made inescapably clear when Harry Kim invited her to play tennis with him.

As the ball sailed past her reach for what seemed like the thousandth time, she let her racket fall to the ground with a clatter. "What's the score?" she gasped, leaning heavily against the net.

The Chief of Ops made a valiant but unconvincing attempt to look surprised. "Score?" he echoed, frowning and scratching his head. "I didn't know we were keeping score."

"The score," she repeated firmly.

He was silent for a moment. "You don't want to know," he said at last.

Jordan groaned and sank to her knees in the middle of the court. "Come on, Chief," she panted. "You said you were going to go easy on me."

He blinked. "I thought I was."

She huffed a breathless laugh. She was too tired to make any other reply.

Kim reached over the net and grasped her hand, helping her to her feet. "You can call me Harry, you know," he told her as they sat down on a bench at the edge of the court.

"Nah," she said easily. "I like 'Chief' better. It makes me feel like I know somebody important."

He snorted in amusement. "I hate to break it to you, but I'm little more than a glorified handyman."

"To whom everyone turns, fanning themselves and wringing their hands if something goes wrong," she pointed out.

He smiled as he acknowledged the compliment. "Speaking of fanning," he said, taking in her damp hair and her flushed, splotchy face, "you want to lower the temperature in here a little? You look like you might be overheated."

Jordan shook her head. "Thanks, but I just need some water."

Kim passed her a bottle, and she thanked him. "Sorry I'm not a more challenging opponent," she went on. "But I appreciate the invitation. This was fun."

"Any time. Just don't tell the Doc that I nearly killed you."

She laughed again. "Don't worry, I'm not telling him. In fact, _no one_ is to find out how badly you schooled me today. Got it?"

"Got it."

They sat in silence as Jordan recovered her breath and toweled herself dry. She would never admit it, but she was absolutely exhausted. Naturally, Kim hadn't even broken a sweat.

She liked Harry Kim. He was sweet and easy-going, with a quiet, understated sense of humor that often caught one off guard. She could see why Reiya Meraab was infatuated with him. Although Jordan seriously doubted if he could handle Reiya. Heaven help him, she thought, if he ever found himself in the path of that unstoppable Bolian tornado.

After a while she became aware that the young man was watching her out of the corner of his eye. "So," he said at length. "How are you, Jordan?"

She suppressed a sigh. She was getting tired of answering that question. Of course, he was inquiring after her emotional state. As one of the few people on Jupiter Station who knew her true origins, he had also been informed, with her permission, about her boyfriend's marriage to her sister. He had kindly expressed his sympathies; in fact, everyone had been very kind to her, even Lewis Zimmerman, in his own crusty way. She had to admit, she certainly had no lack of support.

"I'm... feeling surprisingly good," she decided after some deliberation. "At first I was desolated. Then I felt like an idiot, for allowing myself to be so thoroughly deceived. And then I was so angry that I... may or may not have reserved an hour on the holodeck for the sole purpose of smashing pottery."

Kim chuckled softly. "I wouldn't think any less of you if you had."

"Thanks." She paused. "It was then that I realized how pointless it was. I wasn't doing myself any favors by staying angry, or by wallowing in self-pity. I was actually hurting myself by dwelling on it. By living in the past."

She took a deep breath. "It happened. It sucks, but it happened. I can either keep harboring resentment and hurt feelings over it, or I can move on with my life. And the truth is, I have a great life now. Better than I could have ever imagined. So that's what I'm going to focus on."

Kim shook his head in amazement. "Wow," he said quietly. "You have an amazing attitude, Jordan. I'm not sure I could be so optimistic, if I were in your shoes."

"If I wasn't an optimist," she said simply, "I probably wouldn't be alive today."

They were both silent as they contemplated this.

"Well," said Kim after a moment, "I'm glad you're here. Speaking of which, can I ask how long you're staying?"

"I have no idea," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "The Doctor says I only have one more batch of inoculations, and then I'll be ready to travel. Commander Bhat has spoken with me several times about it; apparently Starfleet really, _really_ wants me to come to Earth. But I'm not so sure if _I_ want to."

"Don't you miss it?"

Jordan considered the question. "I think," she said slowly, "I miss the _idea_ of Earth. I'm sure it's nothing like I remember it. Besides, everyone I ever knew on Earth is gone. All my friends are here on Jupiter Station. If I went back now, it would just be a reminder of everything I've lost.

"But," she had to concede, "I do miss the grass, the trees, the... _aliveness_ of it. This space station is incredible, but I'm starting to crave the feeling of actual solid ground beneath my feet."

Kim gave a knowing nod. "Cabin fever. I used to get it all the time on _Voyager_."

She watched him for a moment, trying to muster the courage, or perhaps the audacity, to ask the question which had been nagging at her for weeks. _Oh, the hell with it,_ she thought. "Can I ask you something, Chief?"

He nodded.

"You were stranded in the Delta Quadrant for seven years, right?"

"Almost eight."

"From what the Doctor has told me, it was a miracle you made it back to Earth at all." She hesitated, wondering how to put it. "So why...?"

He seemed to know what she was trying to say. "Why am I here on Jupiter Station?" He smiled wryly. "I'm not going to lie. I wanted to get home as much as anyone else on that ship; probably even more than most. I thought about Earth every day. When we actually got there, it was like a dream come true."

His smile faded. "But it was just that — a dream. I was so caught up in my dream of seeing Earth again, I hadn't even realized that _Voyager_ had become my home. Earth just... didn't feel the same anymore."

"How long did you stay there?" Jordan asked.

"A year. Then the Doc got in touch with me, said the station was looking for a new Chief of Ops. And I jumped at the chance. I missed being able to look out my window and see the stars. I missed the cooperation, the camaraderie, of being part of a crew." He noticed Jordan trying and failing to hide a smile, and he narrowed his eyes at her. "You think I'm crazy."

"No, not at all," she said, her smirk growing. "I understand perfectly. You missed the Doctor."

Kim heaved a wistful sigh. "Well, what can I say? He completes me."

Jordan burst out laughing.

After thanking him again for the game, she parted ways with him outside the holodeck, returning his farewell wave. Yes, she decided, she liked Harry Kim. The Doctor certainly had good taste in friends.

Jordan smiled to herself as she made her way to the nearest bank of turbolifts. She could not have asked for a better friend than the Doctor. Not only did she owe him her life and her health, but perhaps even her sanity. If it hadn't been for his compassion and patience and understanding, she might still be mired in a swamp of depression. He had shown her that despite her losses and disappointments, she had many reasons to be thankful. And one of those reasons was the Doctor himself.

Yes, he was rather smug and arrogant and a bit of a snob, and he was perhaps a touch over-protective of her. And he was _way_ too fond of opera. But he was also kind, and funny, and seemed to make it his mission to coax a smile from her whenever he could. For that reason, he was her favorite person on Jupiter Station.

Her favorite person, she realized with a disbelieving chuckle, was a hologram. The future was insane.

She pressed the button for the turbolift and stepped inside. Just as the door was sliding shut, she heard a voice call out, "Could you hold the lift for me, please?"

Jordan held the door open, and a tall, red-haired woman darted inside. "Thank you," she said breathlessly.

"No problem," Jordan replied. "What deck?"

The woman seemed not to hear her at first. "Hmm? Oh, Deck Eleven, Section Three."

 _Same section as my quarters,_ she thought in mild surprise. She requested the destination, and the turbolift whirred to life.

"I like your hair," the woman said after a short silence.

Jordan smiled. "Thank you."

"I'm Alicia," she went on, sticking out her hand. "Alicia De Witt."

She was a very pretty woman in her late thirties or early forties, and smartly dressed in a way that was no doubt carefully cultivated, but somehow gave the impression of being effortless. Her eyes were bright green, her gaze piercingly direct.

Jordan took the woman's hand, feeling self-conscious in her sweaty tennis clothes. "Jordan Starling."

The woman's eyes went wide. "Jordan Starling? What a coincidence! I've been looking all over the station for you. Imagine bumping into you in the turbolift!"

"You were looking for me?" Jordan asked, confused.

Alicia nodded. "I'm a friend of the Doctor's," she explained. "He's spoken so highly of you, I felt I just had to meet you."

It took an effort for Jordan not to frown. She had never heard the Doctor mention anyone by the name of Alicia De Witt. Of course, the Doctor knew quite a lot of people. Still, it seemed odd that he should have been speaking about her to somebody she had never met.

"How do you know the Doctor?" she asked, doing her best to sound mildly interested. "Did you serve on _Voyager_ together?"

"Oh, no," Alicia replied. "We met on Earth during his sentience hearings. In fact, I helped put his case in the public eye. I'm a reporter, you see."

Jordan's polite smile faltered at this. A reporter. That would account for the warning bells that had been going off in her head. She made a mental note to be very careful what she said to this woman.

"I understand you came here to Jupiter Station under rather unusual circumstances," Alicia went on.

"Where did you hear that?" she asked guardedly.

The redhead gave a careless shrug of her slender shoulders. "Word gets around," she said evasively.

"Well, I'd appreciate it if it _didn't_ get around," said Jordan. "I don't really want people to know... where I came from."

"No, no, I understand," Alicia quickly assured her. "I can't imagine how hard it must have been for you, though. Being immersed in such a strange new environment. Leaving everything behind—"

"I'd say I'm coping fairly well," Jordan cut in, eager to change the subject. "And I've had a lot of help. The Doctor, especially, has been very supportive."

"I'm glad to hear it." The woman cleared her throat lightly. "I'm a little surprised, though."

This time Jordan did frown. "Why should you be? He's a kind person."

"Oh, absolutely," Alicia agreed. "I'm just surprised he was so ready and willing, considering your relation to Henry Starling."

Jordan felt as though she were in a play, and there was a massive chunk of dialogue that had been taken out of the script without her knowledge. "Wait, what? Uncle Henry? Why would my uncle have any bearing on the Doctor's willingness to treat me?"

The reporter opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment the turbolift slowed to a halt, and the door opened on Deck Eleven. "Sorry," she said as they stepped out into the corridor. "I meant no disrespect toward the Doctor. All I meant was, given the incident with Starling and _Voyager_ and the timeship, it would be understandable if he had experienced some... reservations about reviving you."

Now Jordan was completely at sea. " _Voyager_? 'Timeship'? What's a timeship? What are you talking about?"

Alicia stopped in mid-stride, taken aback. "What's a... You mean, you... you don't know?"

Jordan wordlessly threw up her hands, as if to say, _What do you think?_

The woman stared at her, her mouth slightly open. "Oh, my dear." She hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I'm the right person for this. Perhaps the Doctor had better..."

She trailed off as she saw the desperation in Jordan's face. "Tell me," she begged. "Please."

Alicia worried her lower lip with her teeth. For a moment she seemed to wrestle with herself. Finally she sighed. " _Voyager_ was pulled back into the past, to 1996. They learned that Starling — your uncle — had acquired a spacecraft from the twenty-ninth century; a spacecraft capable of time travel. He used technology salvaged from the craft to build his empire." She looked closely at Jordan, searching for any glimmer of recognition. "You were there on Earth in 1996. None of this is ringing any bells...?"

Jordan swallowed, shook her head. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her uncle — her dear, brilliant, goofy Uncle Henry — had built Chronowerx using stolen technology. She had always thought that he had been a man ahead of his time. She hadn't known how very true that was.

"He was planning to make a trip to the twenty-ninth century," Alicia continued, "but his calculations were off. Captain Janeway and her crew managed to stop him, but if he had succeeded, he would have caused a temporal explosion that would have had catastrophic effects in the future."

 _A temporal explosion._ The words repeated themselves over and over in Jordan's mind, but they meant nothing. All she could think was, _The Doctor knew. The Doctor was there. And he never told me._

Somehow, she willed herself to speak. "And my uncle? What happened to him?"

She knew the answer before Alicia even uttered the words. "I'm afraid he didn't survive."

She laid a hand on Jordan's shoulder. "I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you this, Miss Starling," she said. For the first time she sounded utterly sincere. "All I really wanted was an interview. I'd have thought for sure that the Doctor..."

"Me, too," Jordan murmured hoarsely, blinking back hot, furious tears.

 


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thanks for reading and reviewing. And thanks to A Quarter Past for beta reading like a boss. Sorry the last chapter ended on a bummer note. I'm afraid to say this one won't be much better in that regard. Apologies in advance for that. Stick with me, though. I assure you this story does have a happy ending! Eventually.
> 
> Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Leaving a stammering and apologetic Alicia De Witt standing in the corridor, Jordan made a bee-line straight for the Doctor's quarters, not bothering to change her out of her brightly-colored athletic apparel. She prowled the halls of Deck Eleven, her hands clenched tightly at her sides and her mouth set in a grim line. Even in spite of her attire, she resembled one of the Furies of Greek mythology, seeking to slake her lust for vengeance. As it was, her appearance caused passersby to avoid eye contact or flee in the opposite direction. 

She halted outside a door which was indistinguishable from the rest, save for the number stamped above it. She pressed the door chime once, then again, her hand trembling slightly. 

After a short interval, the door slid open, and the Doctor stood within, a surprised expression on his mobile face. 

"Oh, hello, Jordan," he greeted genially. 

"Hello, lying jackass," was her acid reply. 

The pleasant smile was struck from his lips in an instant, replaced by an injured look. "Jordan! Whatever's the matter?" 

Despite her anger, she still had enough presence of mind to know she wished to avoid making a scene in public. Pushing past him, she stepped into his quarters, which were slightly larger than hers, and reflected his understated good taste. As she paused to gather her thoughts, she felt his confused gaze on her, but she couldn't bring herself to return it. Instead she stood facing the window, her arms folded over her chest. 

"Indulge me, Doctor," she said when she had mastered her emotions, "when were you planning on telling me that you went back in time and met my uncle?" 

There was a long silence. She heard the Doctor swallow. 

"Who told you that?" he asked in a strained voice. 

Jordan let out a bitter laugh and shook her head. "No. That's not how this works. You don't get to ask _me_ questions. I'm not the one on trial here." 

At last she turned to face him. "When were you going to tell me, Doctor? Were you _ever_ going to tell me?" 

He reached out a placating hand to touch her arm. "Jordan, I am so sorry—" 

She twisted out of his reach and took a step back. "Save your apologies. All I want to know is why. Why did you keep this from me?" 

The Doctor opened his mouth, then shut it again. Then, with a sigh, he sank heavily into a chair.  

"Because I'm a coward," he said miserably. 

Jordan snorted, unmoved by his obvious remorse. "At least you're honest about one thing." 

He winced. "I wanted to tell you," he went on. "You don't know how many times the words were on the tip of my tongue. But the time never seemed right." 

"That's no excuse," she fired back. "There was no _right_ time for me to learn that my boyfriend of two years married my sister when I was still barely cold. But that didn't matter. Because I would rather know the truth, however unpleasant, than live in ignorance. And you _know_ that, better than anyone." 

He passed a hand over his face. "I know. I know you're furious with me, and I don't blame you. But please let me explain." 

He gestured to the sofa. She narrowed her eyes at him, but reluctantly took a seat. 

"By all means," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. 

The Doctor took a deep breath; an unconscious and quite unnecessary action. "When I first revived you, you were very vulnerable. Not only were you gravely ill, but your emotional state was extremely fragile. You had just woken up to learn that everyone you had ever loved was gone. And when you said that Henry Starling was the one who saved your life by placing you in cryostasis, I... I didn't have the heart to tell you that he had done so by using stolen technology." 

His craggy features were taut with self-recrimination. "And then when you asked me for information about your family... and the information I had to give you was so terrible... I just couldn't tell you after that. You loved your uncle. In your eyes, he was a great man. Who was I to take that away from you? What would it have accomplished, other than to tarnish the image you had of him?" 

His brown eyes met hers, sad and beseeching. To her annoyance, Jordan felt her attitude toward him begin to soften. Quickly, ruthlessly, she smothered that feeling. 

"He was my uncle," she said in a low voice. "Not my idol. And you should have told me because it was the right thing to do." 

He did not reply. His gaze lowered to his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap. 

Her composure finally crumbled. 

"Damn it, Doctor," she said unsteadily. "I _trusted_ you. Do you have any idea how many people have lied to me, or at the very least shielded me from the truth, because they were trying to spare my feelings? Because they didn't think I could take it? I thought you were different. Honestly, how weak do you think I am?" 

His head shot up at this. "I don't think you're weak," he told her adamantly. "At all. In fact, you're one of the strongest people I've ever met." 

"But you didn't think I could handle this? After everything else I've been through?" She gave a disdainful scoff. "Why don't you just admit it, Doctor? You weren't trying to protect me. You were trying to protect yourself." 

She watched as the Doctor's jaw tightened. "You're right," he said hoarsely. "I knew that the longer I waited to tell you, the more upset you would be. And I couldn't bear the thought of you being angry with me. I'd come to think of you as a friend." 

Jordan's vision began to blur with tears. Savagely, she blinked them back. "So had I," she said bitterly. "But if you were really my friend, you wouldn't have kept me in the dark. And you wouldn't have told Harry Kim, and Haley, and everyone else to do the same." 

"I hope you won't blame them for that," he murmured. 

Jordan shook her head. "Oh, I don't," she said bluntly. "I blame you."  

She rose to her feet. "Look, I understand why you didn't tell me. I do. But don't expect me to forgive you." Her voice broke as she added, "And don't expect me to trust you ever again." 

As she moved to the door, she half expected the Doctor to try to stop her, but he made no move. For some reason, this made her even angrier. With cold resolve, she stalked out of his quarters without another word. 

Somehow, she managed to make it all the way back to her own rooms before she broke down in tears. 

 _Betrayed._ That was how she felt. Betrayed by her uncle, whom she had loved and admired since she was a little girl. Betrayed by the friends she had made on Jupiter Station, who had known the truth about him and had elected not to tell her. But most of all, she felt betrayed by the one person she had trusted implicitly, in whose hands she had placed her very life. The person who had promised from the very beginning that he would help her in any way he could. 

If it had been anyone else, she might have been able to take it in stride. But not the Doctor. Not _her_ Doctor. 

Alone in her quarters, she whispered through her tears:   
   
"I want to go home." 

* * *

 

The Bajoran restaurant on Jupiter Station was a hidden gem in the uppermost port saucer, tucked away on the mercantile section between two textile shops. Alicia had stumbled upon it quite by accident during her stay on the station, but she had returned to it twice. She had decided to steer clear of the galley; she had a distinct impression that the assistant chef would not be too pleased to see her. And the Bolian head cook's own offerings looked rather suspect. Possibly even life-threatening. 

She regretted the way her encounter with Jordan Starling had gone. She had assumed that the young woman already had full knowledge of the _Voyager_ incident; after all, her primary physician had played a major part in the whole affair. Even Alicia herself knew all about it, although she had gone through unconventional and technically not _quite_ legal channels to acquire the information. But why would the Doctor keep it from his own patient? It didn't make sense. 

Alicia sighed, pulling her _hasperat_ apart with idle fingers. Perhaps her trip to Jupiter Station could still be salvaged. It was possible that she might be able to get an interview out of Jordan Starling. Maybe even a picture. She just had to give her some time. That was what she was always telling her editor: a good story could not be rushed. 

She looked down at her plate to find that she had torn the spicy rolled sandwich to pieces. With another sigh, she stood up to fetch a fork. As she did so, she spotted a familiar figure coming toward her, and she muttered a curse under her breath. 

The Doctor descended on her like a Klingon Bird of Prey, displeasure and righteous indignation clearly written in every line of his tall, lean figure. 

"You," he said accusingly. "I might have known you were behind this. How dare you?" 

Alicia's mouth dropped open at his effrontery. 

"Don't look at me like that," she shot back in a defensive tone. "I only came here for an interview. It's not my fault you didn't tell that poor girl that her uncle was a megalomaniacal supervillain. How dare _I?_ How dare _you_ , Doctor?" 

She poked him lightly on the chest for emphasis. He glared at her, but gave no reply. 

Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and walked back to her table, not at all surprised when the Doctor followed her. With an air of nonchalance, she sat down, speared a bite of food, and brought it to her mouth. She was amused to note the color rising in the Doctor's cheeks as she chewed with deliberate slowness. For a hologram, he really was amazingly realistic. 

Finally she swallowed and set down her fork. "How is she?" she asked. 

He seemed to hover in indecision for a moment, as if debating whether or not to answer her. Reluctantly, he pulled out the chair opposite her and took a seat.  

"Furious. Hurt. Betrayed. As of course she has every right to be." He passed a hand over his smooth scalp in vexation. "Why did you have to come here, Alicia?" 

The redhead gave a shrug. "Because it's my job," she said simply. "If I hear about a good story, I follow it. That's what I do." 

The Doctor was obviously not satisfied with her answer. "How _did_ you hear about Jordan, anyway?" he asked irritably. 

"I can't tell you that. My source wished to remain anonymous." 

He groaned and leaned back in his chair. "You're impossible," he growled. 

Alicia's eyebrows rose toward her hairline. "God, you're really upset about this," she observed. "Why didn't you just tell her?" 

He gave a derisive snort. "Tell her what? That her uncle was a lunatic? That he tortured me to get _Voyager_ 's command codes? That my own captain had to fire a torpedo at him in order to prevent him from causing the deaths of billions? Oh yes, that would have gone splendidly." 

"At least she would have heard it from you, instead of a total stranger," she had to point out. 

She knew he could not refute this, and he did not even try. Instead she watched as he hung his head in shame. "She'll never forgive me for this," he lamented. 

Alicia had to cover her mouth to hide a smile. He was just so _dramatic._  

She took in his abject misery for a few moments, until she could no longer contain her curiosity. "Why do you care so much, Doctor? No doubt you've had to give bad news to plenty of patients in the past." She regarded him intently before adding, "Are you sure this isn't an example of the Florence Nightingale effect?" 

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"   
   
She pushed her food around on her plate. "It wouldn't be the first time a doctor fell in love with his patient," she remarked casually. 

To his credit, the Doctor appeared shocked by the suggestion. "Don't be absurd," he scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "There's nothing like that between us. I simply care about her, that's all." 

His expression grew troubled. "She trusted me," he said quietly. "And I let her down." 

Alicia felt a twinge of affection for the hologram. Whatever his other irritating little quirks, it was obvious that he felt things very deeply. 

Taking pity on him, she reached across the table and laid her hand lightly on his. "For what it's worth," she said softly, "I'm sorry. I truly didn't mean to cause any trouble. For either of you." 

The Doctor drew a deep, simulated breath and let it out slowly. "I'm afraid it might be too late for apologies," he said in a low voice. 

* * *

 

Reiya Meraab liked humans, but she had come to the conclusion that they were much too hard to please. She believed the correct term was "high maintenance". 

They were so finicky and particular about what they ate. It seemed she could never please the human residents on Jupiter Station. First they had complained that her food was making them sick. When she took special pains to prepare meals that their delicate digestive systems could handle, they complained about the taste and the texture. There were some days when she thought she could easily hang up her apron and never look back. 

But that also meant that she would probably never see Lieutenant-Commander Harry Kim again. For him, she could endure a few whiners. 

If only he would _notice_ her. Although she made sure never to be pushy or obnoxious, she could have sworn that her interest in the Chief of Ops was quite evident. But he seemed absolutely oblivious. She suspected the reason had something to do with Lewis Zimmerman's pretty holographic assistant, Haley. Even so, Reiya couldn't bring herself to resent the woman; anyone who had to put up with Dr. Zimmerman every day deserved the very best in life. 

Still, it was obvious that Haley did not return Kim's feelings. And it seemed silly — ludicrous, even — that he should be wasting his time in trying to win her heart, when he had already succeeded in winning Reiya's without even knowing it. 

That was another thing about humans that the Bolian found vexing. They were never satisfied. They always wanted something they couldn't have. Reiya had always subscribed to the old Bolian saying: "Happiness is a decision, not an emotion." In other words, everyone had a personal responsibility to be as happy as they chose to be. It would seem that humans liked being unhappy. 

Take Jordan Starling, for example. She had survived being in cryostasis for nearly four centuries. She had been cured of a grievous illness and had made a full recovery. She had a job on the station doing what she loved, and she was quite good at it. Granted, she had also suffered some losses. But if Reiya had been in her place, she would have been grateful for each day she was alive. And yet, Jordan did not look happy. As a matter of fact, she looked terribly unhappy. 

Reiya had noticed a change in her assistant chef's mood over the last few days. But it had not become a cause for real concern until this morning when Jordan had failed to show up on time for her shift — something the human had never done before. Reiya had been about to hail her comm badge when Jordan finally shuffled into the galley twenty minutes late, mumbling an apology and attributing her tardiness to a lack of sleep. 

Her appearance had been alarming. Her face was pale, her hair flat and dull, her gray eyes bloodshot and lifeless. Worried, Reiya had suggested that she should go see the Doctor, but Jordan had refused. It was unlike her, Reiya thought; the Doctor was perhaps her closest friend on the station. 

As she checked on her tray of Bolian soufflés which was baking in the oven, she stole a glance at her assistant working at the other end of the kitchen. She was certainly a stubborn little thing. She had been taking requests from the station residents over the past week, and was making a special effort to fulfill each and every one of them. Today she was preparing something called "coq au vin", despite the fact that she was in no condition to be working. Apparently the dish called for red wine and roughly a thousand bulbs of that Earth herb known as garlic. The smell was truly horrific. 

Reiya shook her head. Humans. She would never understand them. 

Her soufflés had risen to a delightful pillowy pinnacle. Removing the tray from the oven, she carried it carefully out to the counter which separated the kitchen from the dining area, grinning with satisfaction. She knew her soufflés, at least, were always a crowd-pleaser. 

Her grin faded momentarily as she realized most of her patrons who had arrived during the lunch rush had already left. _More for me,_ she thought, her smile returning. 

Suddenly she heard a crash behind her. Her head whipped around to see Jordan fall bonelessly to the floor. 

Reiya rushed over and knelt down next to her. The young woman was unconscious, her body limp. Without thinking, she slapped the comm badge on her breast. "Meraab to the Doctor," she said urgently. 

" _Yes, Miss_ _Meraab_ _?_ " came the hologram's voice. 

"You need to come to the galley right now," she told him. "It's Jordan." 

His reply was instant. " _I'm on my way._ " 

Reiya felt for a pulse on Jordan's neck, not quite sure where her artery was. It seemed to be steady, and she was breathing. But she would not open her eyes. "Come on, little human," she said. "Wake up. You're scaring me." 

Over the next few minutes, Jordan drifted in and out of consciousness, but she could not seem to stay awake. It was with a sense of immense relief that Reiya spotted the Doctor in the doorway and waved him over. 

"What happened?" he demanded, crouching down and brandishing a medical tricorder. 

"She just collapsed," said Reiya, supporting Jordan's head in her lap. "She hasn't been herself for a few days now. I don't think she's been sleeping." 

The Doctor peeled back one of the unconscious woman's eyes. "Jordan?" he said softly. 

Reiya watched as he ran his tricorder over her, frowning deeply. Then he closed the device with a sharp snap and returned it to his belt. "I need to get her to the medical bay." 

Slipping his arms under limp form, he scooped her up with no effort at all, as if she weighed less than one of Reiya's soufflés. 

"I'm coming with you," she said, scrambling to her feet. She quickly turned off all the appliances, before hurrying after the hologram. "Kitchen's closed, everyone!" she announced to the few remaining patrons who were looking on in obvious curiosity. "Medical emergency! Sorry!"  

As she followed the Doctor to the medical bay, she attempted to ask him questions about Jordan's condition, but he hardly seemed to hear her. She found herself unnerved by his uncharacteristic silence. Under normal circumstances, it was nearly impossible to get him to shut up. 

At length they arrived at the medical bay, where the Doctor placed Jordan carefully on a bio-bed. 

"What's wrong with her?" Reiya asked for what felt like the hundredth time.   
   
The Doctor finally acknowledged her question. "She's suffering from acute sleep deprivation," he replied. "Her melatonin and serotonin levels are dangerously low. And she has a severe electrolyte imbalance." 

Reiya was not sure what any of those things were, but evidently they were all very important to humans. She watched as the Doctor brushed her dark hair out of her face and patted her cheek gently. "Jordan? Jordan, wake up." 

All of a sudden the woman's eyes shot open, and her body went rigid. Her large eyes swiveled around wildly, her face a mask of fear, but she appeared completely paralyzed. She barely seemed to breathe. 

"What now?" Reiya asked, alarmed.   
   
The Doctor ignored her, focusing entirely on his patient. "Jordan," he said, "it's all right. You're safe. You can move." His voice was slow and soothing and almost hypnotic, but strangely mechanical. 

"Breathe, slowly," he went on. "In, and out. Good. Now try to move your fingers. Now your feet. That's good. Don't stop. I'll be right back. I'm not going anywhere." 

"Doctor—" Reiya began. 

He held up a hand to silence her. "I'm going to give you a sedative, Jordan," he told his patient, loading something into a hypospray. "This will help you sleep peacefully, and wake up feeling refreshed. Everything will be all right. Trust me." 

Jordan still did not speak, but some of the fear drained from her eyes. He pressed the hypospray to the side of her neck, and slowly her body relaxed, and her eyelids slipped shut. At once the Doctor's artificial demeanor vanished, and he stepped back with a heavy sigh, passing a hand over his face. 

"Doctor," said Reiya after a short silence, "what the hell was that?" 

At last he turned his attention to her. "It's called sleep paralysis," he explained. "It's a condition in which an individual, upon waking, is temporarily unable to move or speak. It affects some humanoid species, particularly during times of stress. The condition is often accompanied by difficulty breathing, feelings of extreme fear, and even hallucinations." 

Reiya shuddered. "That's horrible." 

"Yes," he agreed quietly, his gaze on his sleeping patient. "I wonder how long Jordan has been living with it." 

"Is she going to be all right?"   
   
"Fortunately, it's treatable," was the Doctor's answer. "But I'll need to keep her here overnight. She needs rest, desperately." 

Reiya was reluctant to leave, but she knew her assistant was in good hands. "I have to get back to the galley," she said. "Let me know when she's feeling better." 

He nodded. "I will, Miss Meraab." 

"Call me Reiya," she told him. "Thank you, Doctor." 

After she left the medical bay, she took a deep breath. She was relieved that her little human friend would recover. But she could not help wondering why she had not been sleeping. She also could not get a certain image out of her head. For some reason, her mind kept replaying it over and over. It was the expression on the Doctor's face when he saw Jordan unconscious on the floor of the galley. He had looked panicked. She had had no idea that holograms could panic. 

* * *

 

For perhaps the hundredth time that day, the Doctor looked up from his work station to glance over at the patient lying nearby on the bio-bed. In the hours that had passed since Reiya Meraab had alerted him to Jordan's condition, he had treated a dislocated shoulder, a plasma burn, and three cases of Levodian flu, and still the young woman had not stirred. She was sleeping naturally, and the relaxant he had given her would ensure that she would not suffer another attack of paralysis upon waking. But that did not keep him from worrying about her. 

Guilt surged through his subroutines as he took in her pale skin and lips, the periorbital dark smudges beneath her closed eyelids. He knew all too well why she had not come to him for help with her insomnia. In fact, he suspected that if it had not been for him, she would not be experiencing sleeplessness in the first place. 

He had, in the words of Tom Paris, completely blown it. He had put off telling Jordan about her uncle for so long that eventually, he had reached the point of no return. When she had accused him protecting himself, she had been exactly right. At first he had been shielding her from the truth in order to spare her feelings, but at some point his motives had become more selfish. The fact was that he had grown fond of Jordan Starling. It was strange to think that he should have come to regard the niece of one of his enemies as his friend, but there it was. And he had been too much of a coward to risk jeopardizing their friendship. 

Not that any of it mattered now. Jordan had made it painfully clear that she had no further interest in continuing their association. Over the last few days, she had been avoiding him, ignoring his hails, and refusing to answer her door. He had sent several messages to the desktop monitor in her quarters, but he had no way of knowing if she had read any of them. Somehow he doubted it. 

He could hardly blame her. She had trusted him, bared her soul to him, allowed herself to be vulnerable in his presence. As a result, she had come to hold him in high regard; even put him on a pedestal to some degree. And if he was being honest with himself, he realized he had done nothing to discourage her from doing so. It was no wonder that she felt betrayed. 

He just hoped it was not too late to mend things between them. For the Doctor, there was no worse feeling than knowing he had let someone down. He had let down his friends on _Voyager_ on a few occasions, and the disappointment and censure in their eyes had been pure agony. Thankfully, they had not held his blunders against him, but this was different. He did not have the benefit of years of friendship. Jordan had no reason to forgive him. And if she chose not to, then he had to accept her decision. 

It was with a mixture of relief and trepidation that he finally saw her stir in his peripheral vision. Quickly he rose and moved over to her bio-bed. He watched as her eyes opened, and she wiggled her fingers cautiously, experimentally, as if expecting to be rendered immobile again. Then her gaze fell on him, and she swallowed. 

"What happened?" she asked, her voice husky.

"You collapsed in the galley," he explained. "Your body decided it was going to sleep, whether you wanted to or not." 

She was silent. The Doctor went to the replicator and requested a mineral solution, which he carried back to her. "This will help to restore your electrolytes," he said. "Please drink all of it." 

Jordan sat up, rejecting his offer to help her. She took the cup and ventured a sip, wincing slightly at the taste. He simply waited until she had consumed its entire contents. 

He took the empty cup from her and set it aside. "How long have you had sleep paralysis?" he asked quietly. 

As she tucked a tendril of dark hair behind her ear, he couldn't help but notice she was avoiding his gaze. "It started roughly around the same time I was diagnosed," she replied with an awkward shrug. "It comes and goes. Mostly comes." 

The Doctor started to make some commiserating remark, but he checked himself at the last second. He had a feeling that the last thing she wanted was his pity. "Well," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "you'll be glad to know that you won't have to put up with it anymore. It's easily treatable." 

He looked at her Grecian profile, so cold and aloof, and he sighed. "Jordan, why didn't you tell me you haven't been sleeping?" 

Her jaw tightened. "Because I didn't want to see you." 

Her words hurt more than he expected them to. "I noticed." 

He cleared his throat and went on. "I know I hurt you, and I betrayed your trust. I won't make any excuses. And I don't expect you to let me off the hook. But I want you to know... how very sorry I am." 

"I know you are," Jordan murmured. 

Hoping he wasn't about to make things even worse, the Doctor reached out slowly and took her small, cool hand in his. He felt a sliver of hope when she did not attempt to pull it away. 

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked softly. "Tell me what I can do to make this better." 

Her gaze finally met his, and her eyes were like swirling storm clouds. "I don't know," she said simply, sounding lost and afraid. "I don't know." 

* * *

 

Commander Akshara Bhat woke with a sudden start. Someone was pressing the door chime outside her quarters. Blearily, she tried to make out the clock on the wall, but it was too dark to see. 

"Computer," she said, rubbing her eyes, "what is the time?" 

" _0528 hours._ " 

The bed creaked as the man beside her rolled over. "It's for you," he mumbled. 

"And how can you be so sure of that?" she asked with some asperity. 

"Easy," came his reply, muffled by the blankets. "Nobody comes to see the station commander's husband at five-thirty in the morning." 

Bhat growled and swatted him on the side, before reluctantly climbing out of bed. She found her dressing gown and slipped it on as quickly as she could, her usually perfectly-arranged black hair spilling like a waterfall down her back. With a put-upon sigh, she left her bedroom and shuffled across her quarters to the door, annoyed at being so rudely awakened. Unless the station was in imminent danger of destruction or there had been a mutiny overnight, she could not conceive a valid reason for being disturbed in this manner. 

Her irritation dissipated as she saw Jordan Starling standing outside her door, looking grim and haggard. "Commander," she greeted, her voice hoarse. 

"Miss Starling," she said in surprise. "How may I help you?" 

She watched the young woman's throat work as she swallowed. "I'm ready to go back to Earth." 


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long hiatus. Writer's block plus stress plus family drama equals zero productivity. Also, I was sort of embarrassed that I'd gone so long without updating. But this story means a lot to me, and I'm definitely going to finish it. Even if it takes forever. Although I'll do my best to make sure that it won't!
> 
> My apologies to everyone for making you wait. And apologies to A Quarter Past for posting this latest chapter without letting you beta read it first. I'm just too excited I actually finished it!
> 
> P.S. I totally stole the name "USS Indefatigable" from the Horatio Hornblower books.

For those unacquainted with Seven of Nine, it might have been a surprise to learn that she was not a social creature. After all, she was a former Borg. Since early childhood, she had been surrounded by fellow drones working toward the shared goal of perfection. A person might reasonably conclude that, after a lifetime of hearing the Collective's countless billions of voices echoing through her head, large social functions would not faze her in the slightest. That person would be wrong.

It was not that Seven was antisocial; she enjoyed associating with others, and appreciated the company of her loved ones. It was not small gatherings that made her anxious, that caused her palms to sweat and her heart rate to soar. It was crowds. The roar of indistinct voices and the close press of bodies invariably evoked unpleasant memories of the years of her life which had been stolen by the Collective. She knew it was an irrational response — that she was in no danger of being assimilated again. But it was difficult to convince her autonomic nervous system otherwise.

For that reason, Seven was reluctant to attend major social events, and tended to regard RSVPs with the same distrust typically reserved for rabid animals and Neelix's cooking. Thankfully, those closest to Seven understood her aversion to crowds. And so, when she and her husband had been informed that a member of their archaeological team was having what promised to be a large and boisterous birthday party, Chakotay, instead of insisting on her attendance or chiding her for her aloofness, had discreetly leaned in and whispered in her ear, "Get out while you can."

She knew she had married him for a reason.

In their modest home in Sedona, Arizona, Seven was determined to make the most of her relaxing evening alone. After cataloguing the day's finds from the Chronowerx site, she had improved the efficiency of the sonic shower, tried her hand at a couple of recipes for traditional Vulcan dishes, and composed a letter to Icheb, who was currently serving aboard the USS _Indefatigable_ as part of his Starfleet academy training. Now, curled in her favorite chair next to a window looking out over Oak Creek Canyon, she sat with a cup of rooibos tea at her elbow and a book in her hand, basking in the blissful silence.

The book was _The Merchant of Venice_ , and she was less than enthralled with it. The general consensus was that William Shakespeare had been a genius, a pioneer of the English language. So far, his appeal was lost on Seven. If his writing was a reflection of his personality, she decided, the Bard of Avon must have been maudlin, melodramatic, and possibly bipolar. He himself could not seem to decide whether the play was intended to be a comedy or a tragedy.

Unfortunately, the book had been a gift from a friend. And Seven of Nine never started a project that she did not finish.

It was almost a relief when the silence was interrupted by the sound of an incoming transmission. Setting the book aside, she stood and crossed the room to the viewscreen, which stood on a shelf among a few pieces of Native American pottery. The alert at the bottom of the screen announced that the source of the transmission was Jupiter Station.

She answered without hesitation: "Doctor."

Her old friend and mentor smiled in greeting. "Hello, Seven," he replied. "You're looking well."

Seven frowned. "I cannot return the compliment," she remarked, with characteristic frankness.

It was a peculiarity of the Doctor's that although his physical parameters never altered with age or illness, his many and varied moods were always written clearly on his face. At the moment his smile appeared strained, and his eyes held some poorly-concealed emotional distress.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, allowing a touch of concern into her voice.

The hologram's forced good spirits vanished in an instant. "Observant as always," he muttered, almost to himself. "Let's just say it's been an eventful few days. Commander Bhat has just informed me that Jordan Starling announced her intention to leave Jupiter Station and return to Earth."

This was unexpected news. His regular reports on her progress seemed to indicate that she was integrating with the station's crew quite well. "She did not inform you of this directly?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No. She..." A pained look crossed his features. "We aren't exactly on the best of terms."

"Explain," Seven demanded.

With some difficulty, he proceeded to tell her that Jordan Starling had found out through a reporter about _Voyager_ 's involvement with her uncle, and that she had been furious and hurt that the Doctor had elected to withhold the information from her. Her reaction was understandable, Seven had to admit as she listened. Not only had he neglected to tell her the truth, he had prevented anyone else from telling her.

"That was exceedingly unwise, Doctor," she said. It was not an accusation or a reproof, but merely a simple statement of fact.

"Thank you, Seven, I am aware of that," he answered, rubbing his forehead. "The reason I'm telling you all this is because I'd like to request a favor."

"A favor?"

"I've tried to dissuade Jordan from leaving the station," he said. "It's too early; she's not physically or mentally prepared for the transition. But she won't listen to me. And I've forfeited the right to tell her what she should or shouldn't do."

He paused, as if attempting to compose himself. "When she does arrive on Earth," he went on after a moment, "she'll be alone in unfamiliar surroundings. I'm sure you remember what that's like."

"With vivid clarity," Seven intoned dryly.

"I was hoping... you might befriend her." At her raised eyebrow, he clarified, "You and Chakotay. She's going to need friends. And no one could ask for better friends than the two of you."

Seven considered his request, and decided it was not an unreasonable one. "I am not quite the ebullient individual that you are," she said, "but I shall do my best."

The Doctor seemed to relax marginally. "Thank you, Seven. I knew I could count on you."

She looked at him carefully, noting the melancholy that still darkened his features. "Will _you_ be able to adapt, Doctor?" she asked, as gently as she knew how.

He acknowledged her attempt at empathy with a fleeting smile. "I don't have much of a choice," he replied. "She wants nothing more to do with me. And I have to respect her decision. I'm going to miss her, though. I was really beginning to..." He sighed softly. "Well. It doesn't matter anymore."

His voice was tight with remorse and self-reproach. Although Seven's own expression remained neutral, beneath her cool, impassive facade, her throat constricted uncomfortably. It was always difficult for her to see the Doctor like this. His default state was usually one of confidence and irrepressible enthusiasm. She had long grown accustomed to his smugness, his pontificating, and his irritating zest for life. But she had never gotten used to seeing him in pain. It was... unacceptable.

"May I ask you something, Seven?" he suddenly asked.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"Over the years, I've made some mistakes," he said quietly. "I've failed to live up to your expectations, both as a mentor and a friend."

Seven cleared her throat, attempting to lift his spirits with humor, just as he had taught her. "Are you referring to the time you joined a band of insurgent holograms led by a psychotic zealot, or the time you commandeered my body and consumed an entire cheesecake?"

"A full detailed list isn't necessary," he dead-panned, although her efforts succeeded in coaxing a small, wry smile from him. "What I want to know is... what made you decide to forgive me?"

Seven was silent as she processed his question. She was aware that she needed to choose her words with great care — not that she ever did anything less. Still, she knew her opinion was very important to the Doctor.

"You once told me," she said slowly, "that perfection was a laudable goal, but that it was unrealistic to expect it of others. Even _I_ will never fully be able to achieve it."

He smiled again; an encouraging start.

"I have committed more than my share of transgressions," she went on. "Transgressions which you have been kind and generous enough to overlook. To hold your transgressions against you would be hypocritical."

She paused, wondering if should continue. "Jordan Starling _may_ forgive you, with time. But you must not force it." Recalling a thought she had read mere minutes ago, she suddenly understood its meaning. "'The quality of mercy is not strain'd; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.'"

The Doctor blinked at her. "Seven," he said with some surprise. "Have you been reading Shakespeare?"

"Grudgingly, yes," she answered with an annoyed flicker of her eyelids. "Admiral Janeway suggested that I should expand my knowledge of Earth literature."

"And?" he asked eagerly. "What do you think?"

"I think the man was a very inefficient communicator. He uses a hundred words when half a dozen would suffice. The two of you would have gotten along well."

At last she succeeded in eliciting a chuckle from her old friend. "Oh, Seven," he said, his voice warm. "Don't ever change."

"Likewise, Doctor," she said simply.

* * *

 

Harry Kim was on a mission. He had no idea how he was going to accomplish it, but that had never stopped him before.

As he strode the corridors of Jupiter Station, he found himself shaking his head. He wasn't the type to say 'I told you so' — well, okay, maybe he _was_ — but he had predicted this from the start. But everyone always thought they knew better. He had lost count of the number of times his best friend Tom Paris had ignored his advice, and paid dearly for it. And now this. When were people going to start listening to him for a change?

Haley kept pace alongside him, her face solemn and pensive. He had bumped into her on Deck Eleven, outside the turbolift. Since she rarely ventured into this section of the station, it was not difficult to guess her purpose. So he'd invited her to join him. "The more, the merrier," he had said, although it had obviously been a poor choice of words. He always did seem to say the wrong thing around her.

He cleared his throat and, perhaps unwisely, attempted to resume conversation. "How did you find out that Jordan was leaving?"

"The Doctor," was Haley's response. "He came by the holography lab last night. He looked like someone had just told him that opera was puerile and contrived. Even Lewis seemed concerned. And he doesn't like people to think that he cares about _anybody_."

Kim sighed. "I warned the Doc that this would happen. I told him that Jordan would find out, one way or another. He should have known that this would backfire on him."

"He knew," said Haley. "I'm sure he had every intention of telling her the truth, but..." She shrugged her shoulders. "The situation got away from him. Things spiraled out of control, and then it was too late to make amends."

He snorted. "You mean he was afraid that she would dismantle his matrix, subroutine by subroutine."

"She just might, if she knew how," Haley muttered.

Kim shook his head again. "Personally, I think she's being too hard on him. It's not like he set out to make her look like a fool. He was just trying to protect her."

"Yes, but that's precisely why she's angry," Haley replied. "After she was diagnosed with cancer, everyone around her did nothing _but_ protect her. Her own boyfriend didn't even have the courage to end things between them, because he couldn't bear the idea of breaking up with a dying woman. To Jordan, this is just more of the same. More people treating her like a child who is too delicate to learn the truth about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy."

"That they're conspiring together to make kids lose their teeth faster?" he joked.

Haley shot a censorious glance up at him. "This is serious," she said in a low voice.

Kim gave himself a mental kick in the pants. Just once, he wished he could hold a conversation with this woman without being obliged to extract his boot from his mouth every five minutes. "Sorry, you're right," he murmured, his ears burning with embarrassment. He cleared his throat before daring to add, "At least I have you to keep me in line."

She stopped him in mid-stride with a hand on his arm. "Harry..."

As he gazed down at her, he felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. "Yeah?"

The moment, of course, was shattered by the sudden appearance of a tall, slim figure rounding the corner and nearly barreling into them. On observing the two of them, Reiya Meraab's eyes widened. Without a word, she turned abruptly on her heel and started walking back the way she came.

Kim snapped out of his trance. "Hey, Reiya! Wait!"

"I'm sorry!" she called over her shoulder. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything!"

"You didn't," Haley assured her, unwittingly rubbing salt into Kim's wounded ego. "Come back, please, Reiya."

The Bolian hesitated, before turning again and trudging over to join them. Her tread was heavy, and her usual dazzling smile was missing, replaced by a dejected pout. "I guess you two are on Deck Eleven, Section Three for the same reason I am," she grumbled.

"Are you here to stop Jordan from leaving?" Kim asked her.

"Of _course_ I am!" she exploded, throwing her arms in the air. Kim and Haley took an unconscious step back. "She can't go to Earth! She nearly fainted when I took her to the transporter room to pick up the last food shipment. The minute she sets foot on Earth and sees how different everything is, she's going to lose her mind!"

"It really is too soon," agreed Haley, though in a much more subdued manner. "She's not ready for such a drastic change. I'm a hologram, and even _I_ found Earth to be overwhelming."

Reiya shook her head. "It's not just that. What am I supposed to do without her? I was just getting used to having extra help around the galley. And people really liked her food."

"Yeah, I was one of them," Kim said under his breath.

Thankfully, Reiya did not seem to hear him. "Besides," she went on, shoving her hands in the pockets of her short dress, "I... I _like_ her. She's such a nice little human. I don't want her to go."

Kim nodded in commiseration. He had grown fond of Jordan Starling, as well. Despite everything she had endured, she managed to keep a surprisingly bright outlook on life. Which made her decision to leave Jupiter Station especially puzzling.

"I could just _kick_ the Doctor," Reiya growled, baring her teeth in an unexpectedly feral gesture. "No offense, Haley. But why did he have to go and ruin everything?"

"Well," said Haley, "that's what we're here to fix."

Hoping he would not regret it, Kim reached out and patted the irate Bolian on her shoulder. "Cheer up, Reiya. We'll convince Jordan to stay. How could she leave someone like you?"

He was rewarded with a slow, bashful smile that lit up the woman's face like an exotic blue flower. "Thanks, Harry," she said gratefully.

For a brief moment, Kim couldn't remember what she was thanking him for.

Together, they made their way to Jordan's quarters. She answered the door, dressed in her clothes from the twentieth century — a pair of ripped, blue pants and a shirt advertising something called a "Magical Mystery Tour". She let them in promptly, but she was clearly distracted. Her hair was untidy, and she appeared frazzled and exhausted. From the various items strewn about the room, it was evident that she was still packing her belongings. She didn't seem to have much: some clothes, a few books, her tennis racket. It was sort of sad to look at.

After mindlessly offering them some refreshment, which they politely declined, Jordan invited them to sit down. "I know why you're here," she told them as they crowded together on the little sofa, "and it's good of you to come. But I've already made up my mind. It's time for me to go."

"Are you sure about that?" Haley ventured in her quiet, unobtrusive way. "Earth is going to be quite a change from Jupiter Station."

"I have no doubt that it will be a shock, at first," the brunette admitted as she perched herself on the edge of the coffee table. "But I can handle it. I've handled everything else that this century has thrown at me so far. I'll be all right."

"You can't go," Reiya said bluntly.

Jordan let out an incredulous laugh. "Why can't I? I have no reason to stay."

The Bolian blinked up at her, her mouth hanging open. "No reason?" she echoed indignantly. "What about us? We're your friends, aren't we?"

"Yes, of _course_ you are," Jordan assured her, leaning over and squeezing her arm. "And I'll come and visit you all. I promise I will. But I just... can't stay here."

Her voice wavered slightly as she spoke. Kim could tell she was struggling to maintain her outward calm. He wished he knew what to say. His areas of expertise were science and engineering, not emotions. Still, he had to try. Something told him that she was making an enormous mistake, and would come to regret it — probably sooner rather than later.

"Jordan," he said quietly, "the Doctor was wrong not to tell you about your uncle. No one's disputing that. But he didn't do it to hurt you. He's not that kind of person. He was... misguided. Not malicious."

She sighed and looked away, her eyes shining with moisture.

"If you must blame him, then you have to blame all of us, too," he pressed. "We didn't tell you, either."

Reiya slapped him on the leg. "Speak for yourself. I didn't know anything about it, and if I had known, I would never have believed it. _Voyager_ went back in time? Who would buy _that?_ "

Jordan was shaking her head. "But I don't blame all of you," she said. "The only reason you kept the truth from me is because the Doctor told you to. Because he took it upon himself to be my nursemaid, instead of my friend."

She cleared her throat. "Well, I've had it with that overprotective crap. I'm not some infant to be coddled."

Kim watched with a sense of growing resignation as she stood up, taking a deep breath. "I appreciate your concern. But you don't need to worry about me. I will be fine." Her voice took on a cold, hard edge. "I'm always fine."

After several more fruitless attempts to get her to reconsider, they left her to her packing. The three stood for some time in the corridor in silent defeat. Kim heard a quiet sniffle, and was alarmed to see Reiya wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her dress. She looked so despondent, so _un_ -Reiya-like, that without thinking, he drew his arm around her.

None of them knew quite what to do.

* * *

In the docking bay at Jupiter Station, Jordan stood by a bank of windows, staring out at the ships coming and going without really seeing them. The shuttle she would be taking to Earth was not yet ready to depart. That was just as well. She wasn't sure _she_ was ready.

Alicia De Witt had not yet arrived, either. The reporter had been surprised, to say the least, when Jordan had tracked her down and agreed to an interview, on one condition — that she be allowed to hitch a ride back to Earth with her. Jordan had come to realize that, if Alicia had uncovered the truth about her past, it was only a matter of time until everyone found out. The story might as well be published as soon as possible. She would be a news sensation for a while, but eventually the novelty would wear off, and she could enjoy relative anonymity. The public had a short memory that way. Alicia had known better than to argue.

A small ship docked, unloading a large group of aliens whose species was unfamiliar to Jordan. As they passed, she had to move aside the hard metallic suitcase which stood by her feet, filled with her meager assortment of worldly possessions. For being a resident of the station for a month, she did not have much to show for it. As she did so, her gaze fell on her hand, which was still clutching a small cylindrical object.

She hadn't been sure that the Doctor would come to see her off. She hadn't even been sure she _wanted_ him to. But shortly after Harry Kim, Reiya, Haley, and Simon Moss had said their goodbyes, she had spotted the hologram among the crowds milling about the docking bay. Her stomach had twisted into knots at his approach, but instead of urging her to reconsider her decision, as the others had done — as she had feared he would do — he simply held out his hand. In his open palm was a hypospray.

"It's called melorazine," he said in answer to her confused frown. "It's a sedative and muscle relaxant. Inject this every night before bed, and you shouldn't have any more bouts of sleep paralysis."

Slowly, she took the hypospray from him. "When you find a new physician on Earth," he went on, "be sure to tell them about your condition, so that you can continue to receive the proper treatment. There's no reason why you should have to live with it if you don't have to."

Jordan swallowed a lump in her throat, moved despite herself by his concern. She tried to tell herself that it was simply part of his programming, even though she knew it was a lie.

"Thanks," she managed to reply.

The Doctor opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I... I won't try to prevent you from leaving," he said with apparent difficulty. "And I know you're tired of hearing this, but... I'm sorry. I truly am. And I... I wish you all the best."

He may not have been actively trying to convince her to stay, but he certainly wasn't making this any easier.

"Doctor..." She sighed. "Look, I may not be happy with you, but I want you to know that I'm not ungrateful. I really do appreciate everything you've done for me. I just wish..."

"So do I," he murmured. He extended his hand. "Goodbye, Jordan. Be well."

She reached out and grasped it, feeling its warmth and strength one last time. "Goodbye, Doctor," she replied as steadily as she could.

As she watched him leave, Jordan's vision grew blurred, and she blinked rapidly to clear it. _Well then,_ she thought. _That's that._

She really did wish things had been different. Leaving had not been an easy decision, by any means. She had come to care deeply for the Doctor over the past month, as well as Reiya, Kim, Haley, and the others. But the Doctor had betrayed her trust. In the end, he had proved to be no better than her boyfriend, her sister, her uncle, or any of the countless others who had kept her in the dark. She could have sworn he was different, though. How could she have been so wrong about him?

With a sigh, she sat down on top of her suitcase. She kept telling herself it was better this way. Starfleet had been wanting her to come to Earth since she first woke in the twenty-fourth century. She would answer their questions, give Alicia her interview, and then maybe travel for a while before deciding what to do with the rest of her life. Perhaps she could even visit other Federation planets. The possibilities were endless.

And she would come back to see her friends on Jupiter Station. Maybe one day, she might even be able to forgive the Doctor. But not for a long time.

She did not know how long she sat there, looking at her old, scuffed ballet flats, but gradually she became aware that she was not alone. Expecting Alicia, she looked up. Instead of the red-haired reporter, she was surprised to see Lewis Zimmerman glowering down at her.

"So," he said without preamble, "you're running away?"

Jordan raised her eyebrows. "Are you here to stop me?"

Zimmerman scoffed. "No. You're a grown woman. You can do whatever the hell you want. If you want to go, go."

"Thank you," she answered dryly. "I will."

She clambered to her feet, noting that Zimmerman made no move to help her upright. What was he doing here? she wondered. Had he come to say goodbye? That didn't seem likely. He wasn't exactly the sentimental type. Besides, he barely seemed to tolerate her presence.

"But if you _are_ leaving," he went on, watching as she picked up her suitcase, "it should be because you want to. Not because someone hurt your feelings. That's what a child would do."

Jordan blinked at him, affronted. "You just said I was a grown woman."

"Correct. And running away is what children do."

She could hardly believe the man's audacity. Then again, she could. "Are you serious right now?" she asked incredulously. "Is this your way of defending the Doctor? Because you kind of suck at it."

"Of course I'm not defending him," said the scientist, waving a dismissive hand. "He's an idiot. He should have been honest with you from the beginning, and I told him that." He shook his head to himself. "How did I manage to create a hologram who's even more stubborn than I am? Poetic justice, I suppose."

Unconvinced, Jordan folded her arms over her chest. "So you left your laboratory for the first time in my recollection, and came all the way here to tell me that the Doctor is an idiot?"

"No," Zimmerman argued. "I mean, he is, but that's not why I'm here."

Jordan suppressed an impatient sigh, wishing he would get to the point.

"I came here to offer you a little perspective," he continued. "Do you know why he didn't tell you?"

"Sure," she said bitterly. "He didn't want me to be angry with him."

" _Wrong._ " Zimmerman pointed a finger in her face, startling her. "He didn't want you to be angry with your uncle."

Jordan took a step back, her irritation growing by the second. "Well, that's touching, but he still shouldn't have hidden the truth from me. I'm no stranger to bad news."

"Good," said Zimmerman bluntly, "because you're about to hear some more. Sit down."

He gestured to a nearby stack of shipping containers. Jordan shot him a peeved look, but seated herself on one of them.

"You should know, first of all," he said, "that it wasn't the Doctor's idea to revive you. In fact, he had some serious doubts about waking up the close relative of a man whose biggest claim to fame is nearly tearing the universe a new one. But he did, because he's an idiot." He rolled his eyes. "And because he's virtuous, compassionate, all the things I never programmed him to be, blah, blah, blah."

Jordan smiled despite herself.

"Now. Imagine how he felt when he realized that this young woman had no idea what kind of a man her uncle was. And make no mistake, kid. Henry Starling was a bastard. He was greedy, callous, opportunistic, and completely heedless of the consequences of his actions. He didn't give a damn about the future. All he cared about was making himself even more obscenely wealthy than he already was."

As difficult as it was to hear her uncle being described in such unfavorable terms, it was also something of a relief. Somehow, she instinctively knew Zimmerman was right. He was definitely not the type to sugar-coat the truth or spare another's feelings. In a way, it was exactly what she had needed to hear.

"But like I said," he went on, "this young woman — this very nice, gullible young woman — had no knowledge of this. In fact, she thought her dear old uncle was the cat's pajamas. Considering everyone she ever knew was dead, and her memories were quite literally all she had left, it's perhaps not surprising that her physician decided not to traumatize her further by telling her that her uncle was a psychopath who tortured him for information."

He suddenly snorted. "Not that it did him any good, the coward."

Jordan sat up straight, not certain she had heard him correctly. "What was that last part?" she asked sharply. "Did you just say 'torture'?"

Zimmerman arched an eyebrow. "So, Sonny Boy didn't tell you that little tidbit? Can't say I blame him. I don't really like talking about it either, to be honest."

In an instant she shot to her feet. "What do you mean, my uncle _tortured_ him?" she demanded, her heart in her throat.

Zimmerman looked at her narrowly. "Are you _sure_ you want to know?"

"Dr. Zimmerman!"

"All _right_ ," he said, wincing at her shrill tone. "After _Voyager_ was pulled back into the past, your uncle abducted the Doctor. Transferred his program from the ship's computer with his fancy-pants twenty-ninth century technology. He was after Janeway's command codes, and he thought he could coerce the Doctor into giving them up." He shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "When that didn't work, he... accessed his tactile response sensors and subjected him to pain far beyond what any flesh-and-blood person could endure."

Suddenly Jordan began to tremble. Her stomach felt like it was made of lead, and it had become difficult to breathe. She wasn't sure if she would scream, or vomit, or pass out. She might even go with all three.

She felt Zimmerman's hand on her arm. "Hey," he said quietly. "You okay, kid?"

She gazed up into his heavily-lined face, so like his creation's. "Uncle Henry did that to the Doctor?" she said unsteadily.

Zimmerman let out a long breath, looking tired. "Now do you see why he didn't want to tell you?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, of course." She passed a hand over her face. "Oh, God. I've been pretty stupid, haven't I?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully to the side. "Well..."

At that moment Alicia De Witt finally decided to turn up, her own suitcase in hand. She did a double-take when she saw Zimmerman standing beside Jordan.

"Are you ready, Miss Starling?" she asked.

" _No,_ " Jordan exclaimed, a bit too loudly. "Sorry," she continued in a calmer tone, "I changed my mind. You can still have your interview, but... I've decided to stay."

Ignoring Alicia's flurry of bewildered protests, she turned to the scientist. "Dr. Zimmerman... thank you."

He gave an indifferent shrug. "Don't thank me. I don't care what you do."

Jordan smiled. "I know you don't," she said fondly.

* * *

In his office, the Doctor sat at his desk with a PADD in his hand, attempting to distract himself from the events of the day. His recent conversation with Seven of Nine had inspired him to revisit Shakespeare's works. Despite her complaints about the Bard's tendency toward verbosity, the Doctor found his language to be wonderfully expressive and artistic. And his poetry was nothing short of rapturous.

This poem he was currently reading, for example. It was one of the songs from _Twelfth Night_ , from Act Two, Scene Four:

_"Come away, come away, death,_  
_And in sad cypress let me be laid._  
_Steal away, steal away, breath,  
_ _I am slain by a fair cruel maid_ _—"_

Abruptly he slammed the PADD face-down on his desk.

Maybe not that one.

The Doctor sighed as yet another wave of remorse flooded his emotional subroutines. How could he have been so stupid? Why couldn't he have been forthright with Jordan from the start? What had made him think that concealing the truth would lead to any other outcome?

Not that it mattered. She was leaving, and he did not blame her in the least for her decision. Still, it was only now beginning to dawn on him how much he would miss her. Perhaps because she was from another era, she had no preconceived ideas about holograms, and was therefore one of the few people who had never treated him differently because he was photonic and not flesh-and-blood. There had been times when he was with her that even he had forgotten he was a hologram.

But that was not why he had grown fond of the youngest niece of Henry Starling. She was kind, compassionate, intelligent, eager to learn and try new things. She had suffered terrible losses and disappointments, and yet her experiences had not made her bitter. She was determined to take advantage of the second chance she had been given and live her new life to the fullest.

And it was more than likely that he would never see her again.

She was probably off the station by now. He had not stayed to watch her leave; he doubted she would have wanted him to, anyway. He hoped she would be all right.

"Computer," he said, knowing he was only torturing himself, "locate Crewman Starling."

" _Crewman Starling is in the medical bay,_ " the artificial voice intoned.

The Doctor sat up sharply. " _What?_ " he blurted.

There came a knock, and he whipped around in his chair to see Jordan standing in the open doorway, holding her suitcase.

"Hey," she said quietly. "May I come in?"

The Doctor rose to his feet, half-wondering whether his cognitive algorithms were malfunctioning. Surely this was not actually happening. "Of course," he heard himself say.

As she stepped into his office, he suddenly realized he was staring most impolitely. With an effort, he forced himself to get a grip. "I thought you would have left by now," he said in a carefully neutral tone, clasping his hands behind his back.

Jordan lifted one of her slim shoulders in an awkward shrug. "I kind of got talked out of it," she replied.

The Doctor did his best to ignore the surge of hope and relief he felt at her words. "By whom?"

"Dr. Zimmerman, of all people." At his surprised expression, she quirked a small smile. "That cantankerous old geezer really loves you."

As the Doctor struggled to absorb this information, Jordan cleared her throat. "Look, I... I'm sorry I was so hard on you," she said in a low voice. "You didn't deserve it."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Jordan," he told her firmly. "Your reaction was completely justified."

But she was shaking her head. "No, it wasn't. I have no right to be angry, after what my uncle did to you."

The Doctor drew in a simulated breath. So Zimmerman had told her everything. That insufferable old crank.

Jordan's gaze softened. "Oh, Doc," she murmured sadly. "Why didn't you _tell_ me he tortured you?"

Did she really have to ask? "Because I didn't want you to hate him," he said simply. "And I knew you would, if I told you."

"Don't _you_ hate him?" she pressed.

The Doctor hesitated, considering her question. "I used to," he admitted at length. "But I don't anymore. If Henry Starling hadn't reverse-engineered stolen technology from the future, then you wouldn't have been put in cryostasis. And I never would have met you. And I am glad I met you, Jordan."

She smiled, and he went on, heartened by her response. "It has been a joy and a privilege, getting to know you this past month. I've enjoyed your company, and I value your friendship. I hope I never give you a reason to doubt that."

He watched as her large gray eyes began to shimmer. "Can I hug you?" she asked tentatively.

The Doctor came forward, and she dropped her suitcase on the floor and met him halfway, all but throwing herself into his arms. He returned her embrace as tightly as he dared.

"I am sorry, Jordan," he murmured.

He felt her place her hand on the back of his neck. "Don't you worry your little holographic head about it," she told him. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me. All is forgiven."

The Doctor's eyes slipped shut at her words. "Just promise me one thing," she said. "No more secrets, okay?"

"No more secrets," he agreed. "You have my word."

Jordan drew away slightly to poke him on the chest. "And stop treating me like a child, for heaven's sake. I'm older than you are. Quite a _lot_ older, in fact," she added with a smirk.

The Doctor chuckled, but inwardly his relief was almost overwhelming. He hadn't realized how important she had become to him, until he had come close to losing her.

As he gazed down into her smiling face, he recalled another pearl of wisdom from Shakespeare:

_Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,_  
_Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel._


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I suck. I'm terrible at updates. But I want to finish this story, and I will finish it. Here's an extra long chapter. I know it doesn't make up for the wait. But I hope you enjoy.

Jordan had been a good student in school. She had never caused disruptions in class, had never played hooky, and her grades had always been above reproach. If there was one subject in which she had been pathetically inept, though, it was world history. That had never been more true than it was now.

She had been forcibly reminded of this when she had learned of the Formosa Earthquake of 2047. It seemed almost inconceivable that the entire city of Los Angeles could be completely underwater, but it was. If something like that could have happened while she had been in cryostasis, she wondered what else she had missed.

It was with this in mind that Jordan had made the somewhat hasty decision to do something to remedy her lack of knowledge. Namely, she had gone back to school.

To be more precise, she had enrolled in an Earth History course that was currently being taught on Jupiter Station. At the time, it had seemed like the ideal way to get up to speed on everything she had missed in the past four hundred or so years. Unfortunately, her class was made up entirely of adolescents, most of whom were far more knowledgeable than she was. It did not help that her instructor, Jaavek, was a ridiculously handsome half-Vulcan man whose liquid grace and self-assurance made her feel awkward in her own skin. Her true origins, which were now common knowledge thanks to Alicia de Witt's article, were apparently no excuse for her lamentable ignorance. As far as Jaavek and the rest of the class were concerned, Jordan Starling was an utter simpleton. There were days when she sympathized with the main character of an animated Earth television show she had recently begun watching, who was once described as "a poor kid from the Stupid Ages".

Still, how was she to know that the guy who owned a bunch of tacky hotels and had a board game named after himself would ever become the President of the United States?

After spectacularly failing a quiz on Earth's First Contact with another warp-capable species, Jordan was given a PADD with an extensive biography of Zefram Cochrane and summarily dismissed. On the way out of the classroom, she fought the childish urge to stick her tongue out at her instructor's back. After all, she was _far_ too old for that kind of thing.

As she made her way to the galley to start her evening shift, Jordan wondered — not for the first time — why she persisted in attending the class at all. It wasn't as if the information she was learning was particularly useful in her line of work. She supposed, in the end, it had to do with Alicia de Witt's article. Between the curious looks she received from the station's residents and the incessant questions from her patrons in the galley, she was feeling a bit like an attraction in a circus sideshow. If memorizing the names of the founding members of the United Federation of Planets made her slightly less odd, then by God, she'd study until her eyes melted out of her head.

She entered a turbolift and leaned against the wall with a yawn, barely remembering to request a destination. It didn't help that the numerous meetings with Starfleet Headquarters were taxing her already overworked brain. With Commander Bhat's approval, she had been allowed to attend her debriefings via subspace communication. To say that the top brass in Starfleet were thorough would be a laughable understatement. The fact that Jordan didn't know a damned thing about her uncle's illegal activities did not seem to faze them in the least. They wanted to know exactly how much she did _not_ know, and they were prepared to waste as much of everyone's time as possible in order to find out.

To make matters worse, the one person she would have liked to confide in was being... weird. There really was no other word for it.

The turbolift whirred to a halt, and Jordan completed the short walk down the corridor to the galley. Suppressing a sigh, she pasted a practiced smile on her lips and stepped through the doors.

The shamelessly inquisitive glances that she received upon her entrance were nearly enough to make her about-face and walk back out, but she steeled herself and strode toward the kitchen, doing her best to appear cool and unaffected. _You'll feel better once you start cooking,_ she told herself, and almost believed it.

"Miss Starling?"

Damn it.

Her smile never faltering, she turned toward the source of the voice, a young human woman. "Hey, call me Jordan," she said with forced good humor.

"Sure... Jordan... I was wondering if I could ask you a question about cuisine."

Jordan perked up at this. "Yeah, of course," she replied, pleased to be able to discuss one of her true passions at last.

"What was food like back in your time? How did you cook without replicators?"

Jordan's smile fell. "Oh," she said flatly. _Figures,_ she thought.

"Well, actually, it wasn't all that different than today," she explained. "We didn't have replicators, but we had many other appliances that cut down on cooking times and made things more convenient. It's not like we had to rub two sticks together. Although," she added dryly, "I knew several male chefs who would have preferred it that way. I don't know what it is about men and fire..."

She could tell she was losing her audience. "Anyway, cooking was basically like it is now, only it took a little longer. Does that answer your question?"

It may have been Jordan's imagination, but it seemed as if the woman was disappointed in her answer. "Yes, thank you," she said, before vaguely excusing herself.

"Any time," Jordan muttered under her breath.

By the time she got to the kitchen, her temper was bubbling over more than the foul-smelling concoction that was currently stewing at Reiya's cooking station. Without pausing in her stirring, the Bolian looked up at her with a mischievous grin.

"So," she said in a syrupy-sweet voice, "how was school, dear?"

"Awesome," Jordan dead-panned as she opened the door to the pantry and began rummaging through the ingredients. "The kids laughed at me for mispronouncing 'T'Plana-Hath', and I'm pretty sure Jaavek thinks I eat glue, but at least I'm still the reigning queen of twentieth-century pop culture. Not a single one of my classmates have ever heard of a hula hoop, a lava lamp, or a Sony Walkman. So I've got that going for me."

"I'm so proud."

"Why doesn't he ever give out pop quizzes on David Bowie? I would _ace_ those."

"As usual, I have no idea what you're talking about," Reiya called. "But don't give up. You're smart. You managed to figure out my insane kitchen in less than a week. You'll catch up with the rest of the class in no time."

Jordan sighed. She tried to draw on her usual store of optimism, but it seemed to be in short supply. She was just so tired.

Suddenly her eyes fell on a very strange sight. On the floor of the pantry, shoved into the far corner, was a crate full of bizarre objects. They were roughly the size and shape of a pomegranate, but they were bright blue with yellow stripes. For the life of her, she couldn't tell if they were fruits or vegetables.

"What are these?" she asked.

"What are what?" Reiya leaned in through the open doorway. "Oh, those. Those are polekos. My supplier from Bolarus sent them. He's always trying to unload them on me, because Bolians don't eat them. I never know what to do with the things."

"Polekos?" Jordan bent down and picked one up. "Will I die if I eat one?"

Reiya shrugged. "Probably not, but why would you? They don't taste like anything."

Cautiously, Jordan took a bite. Immediately the fruit's crisp, sweet juices filled her mouth. "Are you kidding?" she asked incredulously. "It tastes like a honeycrisp apple injected with champagne!"

"A what injected with _what?_ "

She took another bite, nearly swooning with rapture. "Oh, man... Can I have these? I _must_ make something with them."

"If you can stomach them, then by all means."

Jordan moved to stand up, only to slump backward immediately on her rear end. "Huh," she said in mild surprise.

"Are you all right?" Reiya asked as she helped her upright. "You look pale. More so than normal, although I'm never sure what 'normal' looks like on you pastier varieties of humans."

"I'm okay," Jordan assured her, attempting to blink away the stars in her vision. Persistent little buggers.

"You've been doing too much," the Bolian said, frowning at her in disapproval. "All these classes and meetings with Starfleet are wearing you out. You shouldn't be taxing yourself like this. You're not exactly healthy yet."

"And I never will be, if I keep going easy on myself," Jordan argued. "I'll be fine. I just need some water."

She tried to ease her way past Reiya, but the taller woman would not be budged. "No," she said firmly, "you _need_ rest. And probably a check-up. Which I'm sure your holo-buddy would be only too happy to perform."

At the mention of the Doctor, Jordan sighed. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. As your boss, I am ordering you to report to the medical bay." Reiya paused. "I can do that, right? Give orders? I'm pretty sure I can."

With a put-upon groan, Jordan relented. "Fine," she replied. She waved the partially-eaten poleko in the Bolian's face. "But I'm taking this with me."

"Please, get yourself and that thing out of here!" Reiya shook her head in consternation. "Humans."

Reluctantly, Jordan left the kitchen and made her way out of the galley, careful not to get pulled into any more conversations. Under normal circumstances, she might have been glad to take the afternoon off and spend it with her dear friend. But lately, the Doctor had not been acting like the Doctor. In point of fact, he had not been acting like _anyone_. It wasn't anything she could easily define; it was almost like someone had replaced him with a shoddy imitation. Whatever it was, it was starting to get on her nerves.

"Your lips are blue," Ensign Moss said without preamble as she entered the medical bay.

"Cool," was her reply, but wiped at her mouth with her sleeve. "Is the Doc around? Apparently I'm dying."

"Am I my Doctor's keeper?" He set down the PADD he had been reading. "Come here and let me have a look at you. I'm a trained medical professional as well, you know. And unlike the hologram, I actually studied to get where I am. For all that it got me."

Obediently, Jordan sat down on one of the bio-beds, and Moss gave his medical tricorder a cursory wave over her. "Who told you you were dying?" he asked.

"Reiya."

"Let me guess. You've been over-exerting yourself again?" He sighed. "Jordan... How shall I put this delicately? By rights, you shouldn't even be alive. As it is, you're only here because of a series of miracles of technology. You have to stop treating your body like it's a regular human body. It's not. You may feel better than you did, but you've a long way to go before you're healed. Just... keep that in mind. All right, love?"

Jordan blinked, unaccustomed to such directness from the usually quiet man. "I... will. Thanks."

He closed his tricorder with a snap. "You're not dying. But you need rest. I recommend a hot bath and a cup of tea."

"Aww, that's so Britishy," she teased.

"If that sounds too sedate for a young go-getter such as yourself," he continued as if he hadn't heard her, "there's always the movie tonight. They're showing something called 'The Man Who Knew Too Much'. I believe that's from your century?"

Approximately one year ago, at Harry Kim's suggestion, it had become routine to play an old film once a week in one of Jupiter Station's many holodecks. The event was advertised as an educational experience, but Jordan suspected it was really an excuse for the residents to kick back and stuff their faces with popcorn. In any event, it seemed to be fairly popular.

"You are correct, sir," she told Moss. "And it's been several hundred years since I've seen it."

Moss smiled faintly. "Well, then, it's settled." He cleared his throat hesitantly. "I, er... I don't suppose you would..."

Abruptly he trailed off as his gaze shifted to somewhere over her shoulder, and his smile faded. "Doctor," he said politely.

Jordan twisted around on the bio-bed to find the Doctor standing behind them. He appeared surprised to see her. "Ensign," he greeted in return. "Jordan, what brings you here? Is everything all right?"

"Yes, I've just been feeling a little worn out. Simon was giving me a check-up." She turned back to Moss. "What were you about to say, Simon?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing of importance. If that will be all, I should get back to work."

Moss's manner had gone from friendly to curt and dismissive in an alarmingly short amount of time; a change which coincided precisely with the Doctor's arrival. A sneaking suspicion settled in Jordan's stomach like a lead weight. "Okay," she said slowly. "Well, thank you."

He nodded brusquely and strode out of the room, leaving an awkward silence behind in his wake.

After a moment the Doctor spoke up. "I'm sorry to hear you've been feeling unwell."

Jordan shook her head. "It's my own fault. I've been doing too much again. As everyone keeps helpfully pointing out."

"If there is anything I can do to hasten your recovery, please don't hesitate to let me know."

There it was again. That phony, artificial voice of his — like an automated recording. She had heard that voice on many occasions over the past couple weeks, and it was more grating each time. Where had her Doctor gone? Where were his histrionics, his snarky remarks, his infuriatingly smug smiles? Who was this bland, insincere impostor standing in front of her?

Suppressing a shudder, she hopped down from bio-bed. Perhaps he was malfunctioning. Yes, that was a possibility. She resolved, after she left the medical bay, to pay a visit to Dr. Zimmerman. As unbearable as he was, he knew his creation better than anyone. If anyone could get to the bottom of the Doctor's odd behavior, it was him.

"So," she prompted, if only to make conversation, "do you have any plans after your shift is over?"

"No, nothing in particular," was his polite reply as he busied himself with putting away various medical apparatus.

 _I'm probably going to regret this,_ she thought. "Do you want to go to the movie with me tonight? They're playing 'The Man Who Knew Too Much'."

To her surprise, the Doctor snorted. "I know exactly how he feels," he muttered dryly.

Slowly, he looked up at Jordan, who was staring open-mouthed at him. He appeared inexplicably embarrassed. "Sorry," he said quickly.

Jordan burst out laughing in delight. " _Yes!_ " she nearly shouted, pumping her fist in the air. "There you are! It's about time. I was starting to miss you."

The Doctor blinked, clearly puzzled by her outburst. "Did I go somewhere?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, I don't know where the Doctor has been, but I've been talking to the EMH for the past two weeks, and to be honest, I'm kind of sick of him."

"I... don't understand."

Jordan sighed, leaning against the bio-bed. "How should I put this? Lately, it's like you're someone else. Someone I've taken to calling 'The Doctor Lite'. Very polite and solicitous, but detached. Stilted. _Fake._ Frankly, if I have to exchange one more banal pleasantry with you, I'm going to flip my lid."

As she spoke, the hologram's expression grew pensive. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I've been trying not to step on your toes. I didn't realize I must have been trying too hard."

Immediately Jordan regretted being so blunt with him. "You don't have to be sorry," she said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "And you don't have to walk on eggshells around me. My God, you act like I'm going to bite you in half, or..."

The realization hit her like a forty-ton semi. "Or try to leave again," she breathed. "Oh, Doc."

He still wouldn't meet her gaze. "My presumptuous, overbearing nature nearly cost me your friendship. I don't want to do anything to risk..."

"Hey." Jordan gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Let's clear this up right now, okay? I was angry with you because of what you did, not because of who you are. As presumptuous and sarcastic and overbearing as you can be sometimes... I wouldn't change a thing about you."

At last the Doctor looked up at her. His eyes were full of relief and wonder and... gratitude? "Really?" he asked softly.

"Absolutely," she told him firmly.

The corner of his lips twitched, a shadow of his old, wry smile. "I notice you threw 'sarcastic' in there for good measure," he observed.

"The truth hurts, sweetheart."

He actually laughed at that, and it was music to Jordan's ears.

"So are you coming to the movie or not?" she asked. "The main character is a charming, courageous doctor. That should please you."

His eyebrows rose as he shot her a distinctly impish glance. "How could I refuse?" he replied breezily. "After all, I was taught to respect my elders."

Jordan clapped her hands. "Yay, he's back!" she exclaimed, earning another laugh from the Doctor.

It was with indescribable relief that she left the medical bay and made her way to the turbolifts. Her friend hadn't gone anywhere, after all; it was all just a misunderstanding. She was very glad — not least of all because she wouldn't have to talk to Dr. Zimmerman. That was definitely a visit she would rather avoid if she possibly could. Now she could go to her quarters, relax, maybe even take a nap. Which, thanks to the Doctor, was no longer a terrifying experience. She might even—

_"Zimmerman to Crewman Starling."_

Jordan's eyes slipped shut. _Crap._

She took a deep breath and touched her comm badge. "Starling here." Her voice didn't sound nearly as confident as she'd meant it to.

_"You busy?"_

Jordan frowned, wondering why her schedule would be of any interest to him. "No, not at the moment," she said slowly. "What—?"

Zimmerman swiftly cut her off. _"Come on down to the lab. Got a project I could use your help with."_

Now she was really confused. " _My_ help?" she repeated. "But I don't know the first thing about holography. I'm not even sure I'm pronouncing it correctly."

_"Quick like a bunny, chop chop. Zimmerman out."_

Jordan opened her mouth to reply, but the comm had already cut out.

"Awesome," she muttered to the empty corridor.

* * *

Lewis Zimmerman did not encourage guests. This was by choice. He was a private man, and highly protective of his personal space — which, it must be said, ideally extended to several hundred meters. Since that was not possible on a space station, he viewed his laboratory as his _sanctum sanctorum_ , holy and inviolate. The very idea of guests ran contradictory to that entire premise. Guests tended to touch his things and ask stupid questions and try to engage him in all manner of inane small talk. Which was why he discouraged them at all costs.

There were a handful, of course, who ignored his "No Visitors" edict. Reginald Barclay, for one, seemed incapable of respecting or even understanding Zimmerman's simple wishes. Zimmerman graciously allowed it, if only because his visits seemed to make Haley happy. And, if he was being truly honest with himself, a small part of him felt a littly sorry for Barclay. The poor man was even more socially inept than he was.

And then there was the Doctor, who waltzed in and out of the lab like he owned the place. No doubt he considered himself "family"; a ludicrous idea for a hologram to entertain. Zimmerman was still not sure why he allowed the delusion. He supposed, in the end, his creations were all he had. A rather depressing thought.

But now, apparently, he was breaking his own law and inviting a relative stranger into his sanctuary. And all for those damned holograms. He shook his head in disgust. What had he become?

At least he'd remembered to put on pants.

He paced impatiently back and forth in his office, his hands clasped behind his back. Freezer Girl was certainly taking her sweet time, he thought irritably. He wasn't sure he would be able to keep his assistant out of his lab long enough for his purposes. He was already beginning to regret this entire venture.

The door chime sounded, and he ceased his pacing. "It's open. For once."

The door slid open, and Jordan Starling stepped cautiously inside, looking around curiously. "Respectfully, Dr. Zimmerman, what the hell is all this about?" As she took in her surroundings, her thick, dark eyebrows grew together. "Where's Haley?"

Zimmerman waved his hand dismissively, hoping to discourage further questions; he was on a tight schedule, after all. "I sent her on an errand," he said shortly. "That woman needs to get out more. Besides, I can't have her underfoot while I'm scheming against her."

The Starling girl sighed, putting a hand to her forehead. "I think I need a drink."

He ignored her comment. "Does the date May 27th mean anything to you?"

"I don't even know today's date."

Zimmerman stared at the skinny brunette in disbelief.

"What?" She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "We're in _space_. The Gregorian calendar doesn't really apply when you're in orbit around Jupiter."

A fair point, Zimmerman had to concede. "How about Stardate 48308? Ring any bells? No?" She shook her head. "Well, it should. It's the date that Sonny was first activated."

She blinked. "May 27th is the Doctor's birthday?"

"Bingo."

"What's today's date?" At his annoyed look, she clarified, "Today's _Earth_ date, I mean."

"April 15th," he said slowly, as if humoring a slow-witted child.

Freezer Girl — _Jordan_ — blew out a relieved breath. "That's good. I still have time to get him a present." She paused. "Although usually I just cook an elaborate meal for my friends on their birthdays. I have no idea what I'll do for the Doctor."

Zimmerman quirked a rare, wry smile. "Funny you should say that."

He beckoned her with a finger. With obvious reluctance, she followed him into his lab, keeping him warily in her sights as though she fully expected him to bludgeon her with a hyperspanner. Zimmerman merely guided her to his work station and gestured for her to sit down.

Her hilariously mobile eyebrows shot upward, but she did as she was requested. Zimmerman leaned over and punched in a few commands, and a series of algorithms appeared on the screen. To her, no doubt, it looked like a bunch of incomprehensible gibberish, but to him, it was his second language. Possibly even his first.

"What am I looking at?" she asked.

Zimmerman did not answer her directly. "Did you know that a holographic heart can be programmed to pump real blood? Or that holographic lungs can be programmed to supply the body's cells with oxygen? It's a relatively new concept, still in its experimental stages. It was actually developed by my... progeny, in the Delta Quadrant." He shrugged. "If holographic organs can mimic the functions of organic ones, why can't I program holographic taste buds to recognize flavors?"

Jordan's eyes widened as she realized the significance of his words. "You're kidding." She turned in her seat to stare up at him. "You're going to give the Doc a sense of taste?"

"One miracle at a time," he said dryly. "Not just him, but Haley, too. Although," he added, "I have a feeling it won't mean quite as much to her. She's never really cared about emulating organics. Not that I blame her. We're pretty terrible."

Jordan was shaking her head, the lab's lights reflecting off of the shifting colors in her hair. "How would that work? They can't eat food. They don't even have stomachs."

The scientist snorted. "Please. That's just a small matter of designing holographic stomachs and tying them to the station's transporters. Then whatever is consumed is simply converted back into the replicator stores. Child's play."

A slow smile of amazement spread over her features. "That's... ingenious," she said.

Zimmerman looked down at her with something that felt unpleasantly like approval. "You're easily impressed," he observed. "I like that."

"So why do you need my help?" she asked him. "Why not Harry Kim? He's great at this holo-programming... stuff."

He sighed, leaning back against his work station. "Because Harry Kim is a man, to put it bluntly," he answered. "And so am I. Women have a more acute sense of taste than men, a higher number of taste buds. And if I know Sonny at all, he's destined to be a food snob. I need someone with the ability to recognize complex flavors to serve as a reference for my holo-taste buds. A..." He struggled to find the right word. "A criterion."

Jordan rested her pointy chin on her hand, regarding him with a knowing smirk. "You need a guinea pig," she said.

"Pretty much." He ignored her impolite eyeroll. "I figured you fit the bill, being a chef. And a... not terrible one."

"Thanks?"

Zimmerman pushed himself off of the work station. "Well? Are you in?"

"Of course," she replied immediately. "It's the least I can do for the Doctor, after everything he's done for me."

Zimmerman had noted some time ago that the girl's voice was rather well suited to sarcasm, much like his own — and by extension, like the Doctor's. But now it held a warmth he had never heard before.

She was a pretty young woman, he had to admit. True, she was a little scrawny, and her nose was a little large for his face, but he had no room to criticize that particular flaw. Possibly more importantly, her presence on the station meant that the Doctor stayed out of his hair a lot more. What was left of it, anyway.

And she made a damned good blueberry pie.

She stood up from his work station, a mischievous smile on her face. "You know this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done, or ever _could_ do for the Doc?" she remarked. "Are you prepared for the embarrassing display of gratitude that such a gift will almost certainly bring forth?"

Zimmerman rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me," he said sourly. "He'll probably cry."

She laughed.

He eyed her carefully. "You really like that giant holographic ham," he asked, "don't you?"

Her smile widened. "I really do," she replied, that genuine warmth and affection in her voice again.

"Hmm." Slowly, Zimmerman nodded. "Good," he said, almost to himself.

* * *

There was something to be said for the films of the twentieth century. They may not have been as advanced or immersive as holonovels, of course, but they had possessed an artistry, even a beauty, that was somewhat lacking in modern entertainment. One could feel the earnestness, the vision, the _heart_ that had gone into a good film. And this Alfred Hitchcock fellow, whatever his personal flaws, had certainly known how to make a good film.

The Doctor sat, mesmerized, in the darkened theater, his eyes glued to the screen. He had been so riveted by the concert scene that it had taken him several minutes to notice that beside him, Jordan Starling was watching his reactions with considerable amusement. But who could blame him? The actors conveyed such a real sense of urgency. And the music had been _sublime._ He made a mental note to download the works of Bernard Hermann the instant he returned to his quarters.

He glanced over at Jordan, who had apparently grown tired of watching him and returned her attention to the film. For a moment he had difficulty recognizing the emotion that seeped into every algorithm of his program when he looked at her. But eventually he realized it was gratitude. As absurd as it was to be grateful to have the niece of Henry Starling in his life, he could not deny it was true. Somewhere between the first time she had hugged him when he told her she was cured and the moment he thought he would never see her again, she had become very important to him.

But he had not realized just how important, until her words to him in the medical bay.

_"I wouldn't change a thing about you."_

It was such an easy, a natural thing to say. She could never have known how much it meant to the Doctor to hear those words. The Doctor, whose entire existence had been a constant mission to improve himself. The Doctor, who always had to be the absolute best just to prove he was equal to everyone else. The Doctor, who, in spite of all his bravado and confidence, had never felt good enough.

She wouldn't change a thing about him.

He recalled with painfully vivid detail how the crew of _Voyager_ had treated him in those early years following his activation. They had complained about him while he was in the room, deactivated him in the middle of his sentences. They had even discussed overhauling his program to make him more "pleasant". Even now, they sometimes jokingly threatened to reprogram him. No doubt it was meant to be lighthearted, but it still stung. The message was clear: he was _lacking_. Even Lewis Zimmerman, the man who had given him life, had called him defective.

But perhaps nothing had hurt him more than when Tincoo, the female Qomar who had almost succeeded in persuading him to leave _Voyager_ to indulge his own pathetic vanity and greed for approval, had replaced him with a "superior" model. It had been a slap in the face to realize that she had never appreciated him for who he was at all, that he been nothing more than a novelty to her, to be tossed aside when something better came along.

But Jordan wouldn't change a thing about him.

She knew how pompous he could be, how arrogant, how irritatingly overprotective of his patients and friends. But she accepted him the way he was. When she looked at him, she didn't see a piece of defective, outdated technology that could be greatly improved by a few tweaks and adjustments. She saw a _person_. A person she respected and appreciated and cared for, flaws and all.

No, she would never know how much that meant to him.

With an effort, the Doctor turned his focus back on the film, and it did not take him long to become engrossed again. Too soon, the screen faded to black, and he found himself applauding with the rest of the audience.

The lights went up, and Jordan turned to him. "Well, can I buy you a nightcap?" she asked jokingly.

The Doctor smirked. "Uh, now, now I know this is mysterious Morocco," he said in a perfect imitation of the film's lead actor, "but we're not gonna lose our heads, are we?"

She laughed. "How did you like the movie?"

"It was splendid," he replied with utter sincerity. "That Doris Day had a lovely singing voice."

"Not bad to look at, either?" she suggested, her tone teasing. "I saw you staring at her in that green and white dress."

The Doctor put on a defensive air. "Well. I _am_ a convincing facsimile of a red-blooded male, after all."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn't fade.

"You know, I have yet to hear _you_ sing," he couldn't help pointing out.

Jordan gave a careless shrug. " _Que sera_ , _sera_."

In an unspoken agreement, they both stood up and filed out of the holodeck with all the others. As they left, the Doctor caught a glimpse of Simon Moss, but before he could say a word in greeting, he was gone.

On the walk back to Deck Eleven, he noticed that Jordan seemed unusually quiet and pensive. "Is something the matter?" he asked in concern.

She hesitated, as if debating whether to answer. "I think your assistant wanted to ask me out tonight," she said at length.

The Doctor looked at her sharply. "Ensign Moss? Are you sure?"

Jordan nodded slowly. "Earlier today in the medical bay, right before you came in."

He was silent for a moment as he processed this new information. He had noticed, of course, that Moss was rather friendly toward Jordan; friendlier than was his wont. But he had assumed the ensign was simply helping her to feel more at ease in her new environment. The Doctor had never suspected any sort of romantic interest. Perhaps he was losing his touch.

"How do you feel about that?" he asked her.

Jordan gave a sort of uncomfortable shrug. "I... don't know," she said. "I'm not certain I'm ready to date _anyone_. I mean, Dean may not have been perfect. Okay, so he stabbed me in the back," she amended, rolling her eyes. "But still, he was my boyfriend for almost three years. It's not easy to just move on from something like that. I don't need to tell you that."

"Indeed," he murmured.

She glanced up at him. "Do you think you'll ever marry again?"

The Doctor sighed. "Someday," he said. "I haven't quite given up hope yet. Unfortunately, the majority of women, if they're not solely interested in my celebrity status, see me as little more than a talking tricorder."

Jordan snorted. "Then the majority of women are idiots," she declared vehemently. "You're a catch, Doc."

He smiled as they walked. At length they stepped into the turbolift, and he requested their destination.

After a short silence, he cleared his throat. "Would you ever consider Mr. Moss in the future?" he asked conversationally.

She blew out a breath. "Oh... he seems nice enough. Smart, funny... Not unattractive. I can't figure him out, though. Sometimes he's friendly, but other times he can be very cold. And..." She chewed her lip. "Is it my imagination, or does he not like you?"

He chuckled humorlessly. "It's not your imagination," he replied.

Jordan's face twisted into a disapproving scowl. "Not to sound like Jerry Seinfeld's mom, but how could anyone not like you?"

The Doctor smiled gratefully. If the reference was lost on him, the sentiment certainly wasn't. "Not everyone has fully embraced the idea that holograms can be sentient beings," he told her. "Mr. Moss is one of them. And I'm afraid he may harbor some bitter feelings toward me personally. You know he was considered for the position of the station's chief medical officer."

Her eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "I didn't know that."

He nodded. "Suffice it to say it didn't work out. He has issues with authority, has a hard time answering to anyone. After one too many clashes with the commander, he was demoted to medic, and the position went to me."

"And now he answers to a hologram," Jordan said, wincing. "Yikes."

He smiled again. "It's all right," he assured her. "I've grown accustomed to his... chilliness."

"That doesn't make it okay," she argued. "You're every bit as deserving of respect as anyone else."

He laughed softly, charmed by her fervency, and her scowl deepened. "I'm serious, Doctor. He's not the only one I've noticed who treats you like... like you're beneath them. Honestly, I don't know how you put up with people like that."

The Doctor felt another wave of gratitude rush throughout his matrix. "I can't win over everyone, Jordan. There will always be a few narrow-minded individuals who will never see me as anything more than a piece of technology. I've accepted that. All I can do is strive to be the best version of myself as possible, to be a role model for all the other holograms out there who hope for something better." He shrugged. "If that's not enough for some people, then that's their prerogative. Their opinions aren't the ones that matter."

Jordan's lips curled in a smile. "Well. Now you have the answer to your question."

"What question?" he asked curiously.

"Whether I would ever go out with Simon." She shook her head firmly. "That's a deal-breaker right there. I could never date anyone who didn't like you."

The Doctor had never felt his blushing algorithms kick in quite so quickly before.

They continued their easy conversation on the way back to Jordan's quarters, joking about her new-found fame, and her recent efforts to expand her knowledge of history. It was with a distinct feeling of disappointment on the part of the Doctor when they finally arrived outside her door.

"Would you like to come in?" she offered without hesitation. "I can teach you how to play that Scrabble game I was telling you about."

He chuckled. "Perhaps another time. You really need your rest. Doctor's orders."

She heaved a dramatic sigh. "Fair enough," she said with a smile.

Gathering his nerve, the Doctor placed his hand on her arm. "I want to thank you for inviting me tonight, Jordan," he said quietly. "I had a wonderful time."

Jordan smiled. "So did I," she replied. "I missed you, Doc."

He knew she was referring to his brief, misguided efforts to water down his personality for her. "Don't worry," he assured her, "I'm not going anywhere."

Her smile widened. "Neither am I," she promised.

A simulated lump formed in the Doctor's throat, and he was obliged to blink back holographic tears. It took him several times to reply, and when he did, his voice was oddly hoarse. "...I'm glad," he finally murmured.

Jordan leaned in and hugged him tightly. He held her slight, warm body against his, unconsciously committing the sensation to memory to be reviewed later, again and again.

And then she stood high on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek.

"Good night, Doc," she said.

He managed a smile. "Good night, Jordan."

She stepped into the darkness of her quarters, and the door hissed softly shut behind her. For a long time, the Doctor stared at the smooth surface of the door without really seeing it.

"Don't even think about it," he whispered to himself.


End file.
